


Every Hour God Sends

by Whirleeq



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed III, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 37,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whirleeq/pseuds/Whirleeq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Explicit spoilers for the ending Assassin's Creed III - based off of a couple of kink meme prompts.    AU.   Time travel ficcy :)</p><p>What would have happened if Desmond's intent wasn't to save the world, but to change it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_The problem with choices,_ Desmond thinks to himself, _is that you are expected to make one._

The hologram of Juno stares right at him with a manic, triumphant intensity as Desmond approaches the sphere.

Desmond  _knows_  that this is a bad idea, but he was given only two choices and neither of them good. He is not a master strategist, like Ezio. Nor is he a noble man – he does not see the world in black and white in the way that Ratonhnhaké:ton did. There is no cut and dry answer for him, and he is trapped in someone else's nightmare. It is a feeling that he knows well. Here at the end of all things, he is just Juno's pawn, just like those who came before.

The other option - let the world burn - isn't an option at all. Desmond is not strong enough to walk away and condemn everyone he has ever known. He has but one choice, and it is to touch the sphere and save the world. Not for humanity, but for Juno. He knows that he is most likely condemning the entire human race to a life of servitude under a false god.  _He knows this_. But the alternative...

The cost is way too high. He is no leader, no martyr, and  _certainly_  no messiah. He likes the world very much as it is, thank you very much, imperfections and all. He can only hope that the assassins can find away to keep it that way, safe from Juno.

After he touches the sphere, it will no longer be his fight.

Desmond knows that he only has one course of action, one path to follow. Still, he has doubt, even now. So many of his ancestors spent their lives fighting the templars, fighting for the freedom of choice, and for what?

He has no choice. He has no power. He has only to touch the sphere. If doing so hands the world over to Juno, then it's not his problem; he's played his part.

_His part sucks._

This is the endgame, he's crossed the board, he's taken all the pieces off. His Pawn will be replaced by a Queen, and there is nothing he can do.

Desmond tries to focus. His hand reaches for the sphere of its own accord.

His thoughts are blurry, disjointed.

_'There has to be another way, if I could only just -'_

The ghosts of Ezio and Altair are silently pacing him. He's hallucinating. The bleeding effect, maybe. Or the apple he carries in his pocket. He doesn't know, doesn't care, and can't look at them without looking at Juno.

_'I am sorry guys, so sorry, I did all that I could, there is no other choice'_

He takes a step -

_'He pulls the trigger on the weapon from a time not of his own, a gift from the apple, and he knows that by using the knowledge in such a way, that he has only become its tool. It is not satisfaction that he feels as his once childhood friend, the murderer of his beloved wife and son, dies. Only emptiness.'_

The thoughts aren't his, and yet they are. Another step, and then another -

"Yes, that's it," Juno says, the anticipation in her voice almost palpable. "Touch the sphere Desmond, and save your world."

Three more steps. Another ghostly figure joins him on his death march, crowding his head space with more thoughts that do not belong to him.

_'He feels the knife slide into his father's flesh, so pointless... the spirits must hate him... if he could have only made him see, made him understand -'_

"Focus Desmond. Save your world."

He hears, echoed in triplicate, one thought, one sentiment.

_'I wish things had been different.'_

"I wish things had been different," Desmond repeats aloud, full of intent. He wants, more than anything, another way, another choice.

"Wait -" Juno says, but it is too late, his hand is brushing the sphere. The current flows through him, and he hears a loud, piercing scream of anguish as he falls.

* * *

Desmond doesn't so much awaken as appear, alert and expectant all at once. He finds himself in what looks like the loading screen of the animus, and he is not alone. Nor is he corporeal, and the ability to see through his own hand creeps him out so sufficiently that he flickers out of existence for a brief moment.

"Do not doubt yourself, Desmond. This timeline is not yet set."

The voice comes from all around him. He focuses on it, and as he does, Minerva appears in front of him.

"What's going on?" He asks, although it is more like a projection of thought than speech.

"You have surprised me, Desmond. When I used the Tree to see, the branch that we now occupy was fragile, and far from the main trunk of possibility. We are in unknown territory, Desmond."

"It doesn't look unknown to me," Desmond responds with a shrug. "It looks like we're in the animus."

"I am not surprised that you perceive it as so. But, we are not in the animus, and the memory is broken. Therefore, you must mend it."

"Cryptic and creepy," Desmond grumbles, shaking his head. "Can't you give me some advice that, you know, actually makes sense?

Minerva shakes her head.

"You would not comprehend; your mind is not advanced enough to grasp what you have done. Just know that your intent was strong when you touched the Tree. Stronger than we could have anticipated. The Tree works off of intent and sacrifice. You have not saved your world, nor have you damned it. Instead, you have split off on a branch of possibility, sacrificing Juno in the process, for her intent was not as strong as your own."

Minerva looks fiercely proud for a moment, her eyes bright with vindication, before they soften. She offers Desmond a small smile.

"Do not waste this opportunity you have created, Desmond. Mend the rift and all can change."

Desmond huffs in frustration.

"What rift? I don't understand. You need to give me more than this to go on, Minerva."

"Do you not know?"

Minverva's hand brushes against his temple. His own father suddenly stands in front of him, fist flying towards his face. Desmond jerks back when it hits, but feels no pain.

 _'It's just a memory,'_ he tells himself, even as he steps away. Slowly, the image of his father fades. Desmond glares at Minerva, stuffing his hand in his pockets and feeling around to ensure to himself that the apple is still there. He doesn't trust her, doesn't trust  _anyone_.

"Yeah, you know, Dad and I are good. We... dealt with our issues."

"Yes. And you must help another to do so. The intent to change has made all other pathways obsolete."

Minerva brushes his temple again, and he sees Connor driving his hidden blade into Haytham's heart.

The weight of it all settles in his gut like lead.

"You expect me to... change the past? Save Haytham?"

"It is not enough to save him. You must make him  _see,_ Desmond. You must make him  _understand_. The assassin child, as well."

But Desmond has spent time in Haytham's memories. He knows the man is more stubborn than his father, and far less likely to forgive. As for Connor – Connor sees only in black and white. And neither one of them would understand his vision of the future. It seems... impossible, and he says so.

"They would not understand the world I come from, what we are trying to prevent, and how."

"And now, perhaps, you understand us a little better," Minerva replies with a smile, but her eyes are sad and knowing.

"Do not despair, Desmond, for though I did not expect that this would be the path you would choose, I have prepared for you to have help, should it come to pass. May I see the apple you carry?"

Desmond hesitates, hovers his hand just over the apple in his pocket. His fingers close into a fist.

"Why?"

"I will show you.  _Remember_."

Minerva touches his temple once again, and the white fades away. Their surroundings change, and as they stabilize, Desmond recognizes the vault underneath the Vatican. It is a scene he had experienced in the animus, and he is not alone. A ghostly copy of Minerva stands in front of him along with a young Ezio Auditore.

Desmond takes a deep breath, a wary hand closing over the apple he carries, even as Ezio hands his apple over to Minerva.

The Minerva from his memories does something with the apple. He remembers handing the apple to her as Ezio, remembers her asking for it. But he hadn't given it a second thought since he relived that memory in the animus. Now, that Minerva is forcing him to review this memory once again, Desmond notices how Minerva holds her hand over Ezio's apple, resulting in Ezio stumbling forward just a little bit. Ezio's apple glows briefly before Minerva hands it back to him.

Desmond feels a tingling sensation as the memory fades, leaving only Minerva standing in front of him, hand outstretched and waiting.

"I have borrowed something, and hidden it deep within the Tree. With time, It has managed to branch and flourish. It has learned to adapt, to communicate. It has become self-aware. It has helped you before, and will do so now. It is the snake in the branches, and it detests the cross."

Desmond holds the apple out, and Minerva holds her hand over it. The apple glows brightly, then begins to fade. After a moment, the apple starts to crumble, the remnants slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.

"What gives – I needed that!" Desmond exclaims loudly.

Minerva's head tilts back, her eyes glowing from within.

"And I will return it to you, in a different form. And then, I will be no more. As you extinguished Juno's life with your intent, so will I extinguish my own. But first, a warning – do not return to this place Desmond, for it is no longer yours to return to."

Minerva closes her eyes and holds her hands together.

"Erudito.  _Come._ " A whisper of a breath, a demand, echoing with powerful intent. It is palpable; Desmond flickers in and out with the strength of it.

_Erudito._

Desmond knows the name. He remembers untraceable emails; the hacker within Abstergo's network that was never found. The ghost in the system. A mysterious contact who sent him the passwords for the other templar's computers. The one responsible for the seed of doubt that led to the revelation of Lucy's true allegiances.

Erudito was known to the Assassins and Templars alike; an independent third party, trusted by neither; not a part of the assassins, yet no friend to the templars.

_'Make sure you stay in the loop.'_

It had been a warning – no, a command. From Erudito.

 _Erudito._ Italian for Scholar. A partial anagram, missing one important letter.

A. Assassin.  _Auditore._

"You must succeed, Desmond. For your people; for the memory of mine. I bid you farewell... and good luck."

Minerva glows brighter and brighter. On instinct, Desmond tries to back up, covering his eyes with his arm, but it makes no difference.

The blast, when it comes, hits him just the same, and the whitespace defragments around him. He blinks his eyes, takes in a startled breath and looks around. The precursor sphere – or the Tree, as Minerva called it – is in front of him, pulsing, and glowing brightly.  _Too brightly_. He pulls himself to his feet and turns to run, only to trip over someone else. His father? No – the man is wearing the white robes of an assassin, but isn't anyone who had been with him just before he touched the Tree. The other person is face down on the floor, unmoving. Behind him, the platform holding the Tree starts to rumble. Desmond swears under his breath, and prods the other person with the tip of his shoe.

"Wake up, man. We've got to go."

When the man doesn't respond, Desmond bends and rolls him over. The man is well armed; a wicked looking sword is attached to his belt, as well as a number of knives and pouches. His face is obscured by his hood. Desmond checks the rise and fall of his chest, ensuring that the man is breathing, before pushing the hood back just slightly.

He finds himself flipped over and on the ground and pinned before he can even suck in a breath of shock. Desmond feels the cold steel of a blade against his neck, and meets the cold eyes of Ezio Auditore with his own.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Life on earth is a whole, yet it expresses itself in unique time-bound bodies, microscopic or visible, plant or animal, extinct or living. So there can be no one place to be. There can be no one way to be, no one way to practice, no one way to learn, no one way to love, no one way to grow or to heal, no one way to live, no one way to feel, no one thing to know or be known. The particulars count.” – Jon Kabat Zinn

Every muscle, every bone in his body is aching when he wakes to someone tripping over him, as if he were a log in the middle of a road. He wants to groan, but he is very aware of the other's presence nearby, and so he controls his breathing and does not make a sound. A foot prods him, a voice he does not recognize speaks in a language he does not understand. The tone of it is urgent, rushed.   
  
He does not have long to wait before the other bends down and grabs his shoulder. A breath, a simple throw and a release of his hidden blade and he has the other penned beneath him, his life at Ezio's mercy. The other man speaks more words that Ezio does not understand, but he recognizes the pleading look in his eyes.

“Stop.  _Listen --_ ”

Ezio presses the blade closer, for just a second, as the man allows his hands to unfold by his side in a gesture of supplication, eyes wide and anxious. Ezio sees the glint of the steel of a hidden blade under his sleeve and relaxes his hold just slightly, as he focuses his second sight on the man.

The other man glows a bright blue. A brother, then.   
  
Ezio nods, meeting eyes in a face too reminiscent of his own. The skin tone is different, but the eyes, the nose, the shape of his jaw – it is almost as if he is seeing his own reflection, only slightly distorted. He retracts his blade and relaxes his grip on the man, who coughs and stands.

Ezio takes a moment to look around. He does not recognize where he is, nor does he remember how he got here. But he does recognize the work of Minerva's people all around him.

It is not a good omen.  
  
The other assassin places a hand on his arm and points; speaks more words Ezio does not understand. The urgency in the other assassin's voice is clear and strong.  
  
“We need to go,  _now_. This whole place is going to blow.”  
  
Ezio's eyes follow the direction he is pointing. His keen eyes take in the glowing sphere and he watches it for a moment. The artifact is pulsing with energy, glowing bright enough to challenge the sun, and he understands.   
  
Around him, he sees remnants of the first civilization everywhere. There is what appears to be the beginnings of a bridge in front of him, but it is incomplete. He runs to the edge of it anyway, the other assassin right behind him. Ezio does not see any bottom to the chasm they are in, no obvious way out, and he holds out an arm over the edge –  
  
– the other assassin grabs him by the back of the cloak, as he leans forward –  
  
“Wait. Stop, you are  _going to fall --_ ”  
  
Ezio reaches. The floor shifts underneath him as he does, and he knows that it is his will that is making it shift. He has no idea how he is doing it, but the energy that is flowing through him is familiar; the same energy he used to clone himself when he faced off against Borgia. It is the power of an apple, and yet he holds none.   
  
The floor locks into place, and now it is a bridge, spanning the chasm. But Ezio no longer has the strength to cross it. He falls to his knees, taking deep, heavy breaths.  
  
The other assassin takes a deep breath of surprise and then puts a tentative foot onto the bridge, testing its stability. When it does not shift or change, he nods and reaches down to help Ezio to his feet.  
  
“C'mon man. Lean on me, if you have to. We have to go, we have to get out of here.”  
  
He struggles to keep pace with the other man, leaning on him heavily for support as they cross the bridge. When they get to the other side, there is a strange wall blocking the rest of their path.  
  
“Shit.  _Shit_ ,” The other assassin says, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Ezio hears a loud roar behind him, and the whole room starts to tremble.   
  
The other man looks at him, makes a hand gesture towards the wall and then towards Ezio, and speaks. The tone of his voice is that of a query, and Ezio understands the intent of the other man, even if he does not understand the words.  
  
“The key... I don't have it. Can you do your apple thing, and quickly?”  
  
Ezio holds his hand up to the wall and concentrates. It takes a moment before the wall fractures, and falls, sharp broken pieces falling all around them. Ezio trips and falls, exhausted. He can go no further.  
  
“Vai, fratelio,” he orders, but the other assassin doesn't listen to him, doesn't seem to understand him. Instead, he finds himself hauled up once again, by arms straining with the weight of him, and hoisted over the back of a man much to small to carry him.   
  
“Shit, man. You are a heavy fucker... you carrying anchors in those pouches?”  
  
Ezio groans as the man carries him through the doorway. The ground shifts and rumbles beneath them, as the other man runs as fast as he can while carrying at least his own body weight in the form of Ezio and all his gear. When they get to the bottom of a long tunnel leading upwards, the other man drops him abruptly –-  
  
 _“Watch out”_  
  
\--and covers him with his own body as one of the walls collapse.   
  
The rumbling is getting louder now, his companion is on top of him not moving, and Ezio is nowhere near close to full strength. Ezio pushes at his companion urgently, and lets out a breath when he sees the other man's eyes flutter.  
  
“Luogo, fratello,” He orders, his tone intentionally harsh and commanding. The other man jerks to awareness. Ezio pulls them both to their feet, and together they start climbing up the slope, using the bits and pieces of the collapsed wall to help them up. When they reach the top, they are blocked once again by an impenetrable metal wall covered in first civilization script. There is a place for an apple to sit, recessed into the wall, and yet they have none.   
  
There is the sound of a large explosion from behind them, and Ezio reaches forward, places his hand into the space the apple should go, and the wall shifts; splitting in two. He shoves the other assassin through and follows him, as behind them both, the slope they just finished climbing falls away into the earth below.   
  
The cave they end up in is trembling and collapsing under their very feet. They run, the both of them as fast as they can, trying to escape the heat and the light that follows them. When they reach the cave's opening, Ezio sucks in a great breath and throws himself outside, onto the ground. The other assassin ends up besides him on the grass, breathing heavily. They both turn around in time to see the entrance to the cave collapse.  
  
The sound is loud, so loud and Ezio covers his ears for what is probably only a minute, but it seems an eternity. It feels like the very ground might give way underneath them, and he forces himself to inch forward, only sparing a quick look to ensure that the other assassin was doing so as well.  
  
When he removes his hands, his ears are still ringing.  
  
The other assassin rolls towards him, checking him for injuries, brushing dirt and bits of rock off of his robes. When he finds none, the other man turns back towards the cave, his face as pale as a ghost.  
  
“Shit, shit, double shit, fuck... we are so very fucked. Not good... not fucking good at all.”  
  
“Pace,” Ezio responds. He does not understand the other man, but he can see the panic in his eyes and in his actions, as the other man takes his short hair into his hands and pulls. He puts a hand on the other assassin's shoulder in a show of solidarity, and that seems to calm the other man down some.  
  
Ezio points towards himself.  
  
“Ezio Auditore da Firenze. Li tuo nome?”  
  
The other man takes a shuddering breath and turns his head away for a moment before answering.  
  
“Ah... shit... I knew I should have paid better attention... Il nome mio... Desmond Miles.. I think that's how you say it, yeah... shit...”  
  
The Italian is forced, and heavy with an unfamiliar accent. But Ezio understands. He knows the name, has heard it before. Minerva had said the name Desmond, just before he woke up here, wherever here is.   
  
He looks at Desmond's attire, and modifies the thought. He heard the name Desmond, just before he woke up here,  _whenever_  here is.   
  
Something pulls him towards Desmond, an impulse to reach and to touch, and he does not deny it. He reaches, brushes the side of the other man's face, touches his temple in a way that is almost intimate –  
  
There is a rush of information that comes to him as the pads of his fingers make contact. Numbers fly through in his head, reawakening knowledge of a language that he did not know that he knew. One that he had never bothered to learn in life. He almost pulls his hand away in shock, but then there is more information that comes, and he forces himself to maintain the connection. They are his memories, and yet not his. They are memories of a future, of his future, which had not yet come to pass for him, but he feels them as if they had. The memories come at a dizzying rate; he can't make sense of them. People he had not yet met fly before him in his head, followed by emotions that he had yet to feel. His wife. His children. His own death. It is dizzying, terrifying, and he cannot break away --  
  
Other lives follow. Other memories. Altair's. Connor's.  _Desmond's_. Names – Shaun, William, Rebecca. Lucy. Regret, Sadness. He sees a sparkling city burn under the flames of the sun and he understands Desmond's anguish, his despair and desperation. He sees Juno, sees the mania in her eyes, the hunger.   
  
He knows why he is here. He is not enough, he has never been enough, he has only been a messenger.  
  
Desmond is a messenger as well, he realizes. The memories slowly taper off. When they are done, Desmond falls to the ground, out cold. Ezio feels himself slipping as well. The heavy fog of unconsciousness slips in and for a while, he knows no more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe. You have to make it fall.” – Che Guevara

  
  
When Desmond wakes, there are three things that he notices immediately. He is no longer by the cave, his head hurts like a son of a bitch, and he is lying on something soft, a little smelly, and somewhat scratchy. Some kind of bedroll, he thinks; made of wool that is a little too new, as it still has a vague smell of lanolin to it.   
  
He blinks his eyes, sits up too fast and immediately grabs his head and groans.   
  
Someone speaks, he hears a soft feminine voice, and then there is a small hand dabbing at his forehead with a wet cloth. Desmond wipes the sand out of his eyes and takes in a deep breath and looks around. There is a native girl, no older than 13 tending to him. She is wearing a simple dress made of deerskin, decorated with glass beads. Beaded moccasins cover her feet, and her long hair has been split and braided.  
  
“Onega Onigiria,” The young girl says, handing him a clay cup filled with water.   
  
Desmond takes it and nods gratefully, downing the contents in one go. The water is lukewarm, but good. She refills his cup with water from a clay bowl, and motions for him to drink more slowly.  
  
A cursory look at his surroundings reveals to him that he is inside one of the Kanien'keha:ka longhouses. There are a handful of other women and children in here with him, some of whom are unabashedly staring, blinking owlishly wide eyes in curiosity. A few of the other women are weaving baskets together in small circles. Others are caring for the youngest of the children in the longhouse.  
  
Noticing that he is awake now, some of the other youth come closer. One of the boys is bold enough to touch the sole of his sneaker, yet backs away quickly when Desmond pulls his foot back and slides it underneath his leg. He is suddenly very aware of how anachronistic everything about him is, and he's not really sure what to do about it. Best to inventory everything, and worry about it later.  
  
He takes stock of himself, much to the curiosity of his growing audience. He didn't have much with him when they placed the key in the wall and opened the inner room of the precursor temple, but there were many things that a modern assassin kept on his body at all times. For example his watch; at first appearance it appears just to be a simple, solar powered digital watch -- a Casio. A more thorough look would reveal a tiny transmitter and GPS locator chip, neither of which would be any use to him in his current predicament.  It wasn't as if dad would be able to send an evac team to pull his ass out of this particular fire.   
  
Desmond takes the watch off of his wrist and shoves it in the left pocket of his hoodie, which also contains his iphone and ear buds. The iphone is fully charged.  
  
 _'Yeah. Gonna shut that puppy off right now.'_  
  
The phone makes a trilling sound as he shuts it off, and most of the kids make a squeaking noise and scatter, except for the girl who had given him water. She looks very uneasy, however, so Desmond smiles at her as he continues to take stock of his belongings. In his right hoodie pocket there is a small Glock 23; lightweight and easily concealed, and has stopping power, but you'd need to put a bullet through someone's eye to actually kill them. For a well-trained assassin like Desmond, that was a non-issue. He leaves the gun alone and moves to his jeans.   
  
He has a ceramic switchblade in his front jean pocket that, under casual observance under an airport x-ray, appears to be a pack of gum. There is even a fake label attached to it. The blade itself is released on a trigger mechanism, and there are no metal parts. It is weapon that could be easily carried onto an airplane, and one that is sharp enough to sever a carotid artery in a pinch. He doesn't know how much use he is going to get out of it here, but he takes stock of it anyway and puts it back.  
  
He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, and flips through it. He has a few fake ID cards, a platinum Visa in the name of “Noah Fence” – evidence of Shaun's very regrettable British sense of humor – and a total of seven dollars and thirty seven cents. He takes one of the dollar bills out, frowns at the picture of George Washington as if his current predicament was all his fault, then shoves the whole lot back into his jeans.   
  
He then checks his hidden blades to ensure that they are still functional. The young girl who is minding him takes great interest in this, tilting her head to watch as he actives the spring release mechanism. She seems surprised when the blade appears, leaving Desmond to wonder for a moment if 'ole Ratonhnhaké:ton ever bothered to show his old friends some of his new toys.  
  
“Á:share!” The young girl says, pointing to his blade.   
  
Desmond tries to repeat the word, fails miserably, and the girl giggles. He smiles, retracts his blades, and slowly gets to his feet.   
  
“Desmond,” he says, pointing to himself.   
  
“Desmond,” the girl repeats perfectly. “Desmond... come.”  
  
“You understand English?” He asks, but the girl just tugs at his sleeve and motions for him to follow. She leads him out of the longhouse, where a cacophony of sounds and smells assail his senses, and the glare of the sun is too bright in his eyes. For the first time, he sees some of the men of the tribe, and they are fierce and imposing in a way he never experienced while in the animus.   
  
And, also, they smell. Every single one of them. He can't walk by anyone without getting a strong odor of human sweat, and it takes everything he has not to gag. His mind reminds him that this is the 1700s, Axe body wash and deodorant doesn't yet exist, and what did you expect?   
  
His inner monologue sounds British and distinctly like Shaun. So he doesn't feel any guilt when he quietly tells his inner monologue to _shut the hell up_.  
  
The girl leads him to a fire pit, before taking off to who knows where. Ezio is already there, deep in conversation with a young Mohawk woman, much to the consternation of a couple of nearby young Mohawk men. Desmond's not sure what he is saying, but it's enough to have the girl giggling and blushing, and the Mohawk warriors gripping their tomahawks a bit too tightly.   
  
Desmond clears his throat, and Ezio looks up.  
  
“Ah, Desmond. Finished with your beauty sleep, then?”  
  
Desmond blinks, because –  _what?_  
  
“You understand English now?”   
  
The corners of Ezio's mouth pull into a frown as the Italian shakes his head.  
  
“Yes... I took it from you, but... it was already there.”  
  
 _Huh?_  
  
“But -”  
  
“Don't ask me to explain, brother. I cannot. There is a consort of musicians in my head, and they are all out of tune.” Ezio places a hand against his forehead and winces.   
  
Desmond can relate. His own head is still throbbing and pulsing. He sighs, and sits across from the other assassin. But he can't relax, and the questions start rolling out of him, almost on their own.  
  
“How did we get here? How long have I been out? What do you know? What do you remember?”  
  
“Easy, my friend,” Ezio laughs, moving to sit next to him. The native girl sighs in disappointment, and Ezio winks at her.   
  
“My dear, could you inform your clan mother that my friend is awake?” Ezio asks her, charm dripping from every syllable.   
  
“Of course,” the girl responds, a fierce blush covering her dark neck and cheeks, and then they are alone.  
  
“Do they all understand English?” Desmond asks curiously.  
  
“I have only spoken with the Clan Mother and some of the young ladies,” Ezio answers, smirking. “For some reason, the men seem wary of me.”  
  
“I can't imagine why,” Desmond deadpans.  
  
“Most of them understand some,” Ezio continues as if he hadn't spoken, “but one does not need to speak the same language to talk to a woman.”  
  
“I bet,” Desmond responds, idly taking a stick and poking at the fire, and pointedly looking away from Ezio.  
  
Trying to make his mind accept that he is really sitting in the middle of the frontier with his centuries dead ancestor is making his headache worse. The reality he has awoken in is so surreal, he can't make sense of it. He always fantasized about meeting one of his ancestors in person, had always admired Ezio in particular, had even dreamt of him on occasion, and here he was, every bit as suave and charming in real life as in the animus.  
  
Everything that Desmond was not.   
  
Desmond flushes, clears his throat, and tries to ignore the curious look directed towards him.   
  
“So... uhh... how long was I out?”  
  
“Three days. I was out for two. I woke up here, as did you. The cave outside of where we were discovered is considered a holy place to these people. They came investigating after the cave collapsed, found us and brought us here. Their Clan Mother believes that we were sent by the spirits.”  
  
“One of them, at any rate,” Desmond replies with a snort. “I still can't believe that this is real... I feel like I am going to wake up in the animus at any moment.”  
  
Ezio clasps his shoulder.   
  
“And I feel as if I am going to open my eyes and find myself deep in the vault of the Vatican.”  
  
“So, what  _do_  you remember?” Desmond asks again, curious. Mostly because he's not sure exactly what Ezio actually is, or what he himself is for that matter. Are they still human? Constructs of the first civilization? His head hurts, and he is starting to get a little rank.  All human enough, he supposes.  
  
Still, he doesn't kid himself, knows he can't even begin to comprehend the technology of Minerva's race. They had the ability to reach through time itself, and yet not a one of them went _back_.  
  
Except him and... whatever Ezio was. A copy, he thinks. He knows the apple was capable of producing clones. Ezio had used that technique himself when fighting against Borgio.   
  
Minerva had asked to see the apple after Ezio's fight. She claimed that she had 'borrowed' something, stored it in the Tree, and it found its way into the precursor network, and eventually, Abstergo's.  
  
Desmond is not a thinker, not like Shawn and Rebecca and even his father, but he can put two and two together to realize that Abstergo most likely knew the location of at least one of the lesser temples; enough to interface their own systems with precursor technology. Enough for the copy of Ezio – _Erudito_ – to get loose amongst Abstergo's own network and wreck havoc.  
  
And that was a terrifying thought, because he had almost set Juno loose upon the world. What if she had had the same ability – and she was learning, wasn't she, to network with their own systems? Had sent emails, even?   
  
 _No_. That's not the future anymore, he put paid to all that – inadvertently or not – when he touched the Tree and wished for change. And now there is no more Tree and no more Juno, and the world is well and truly fucked if he can't find a way to make peace amongst the Templars and the Assassins, so that they could combine their resources to create a solution in only a few centuries that a race, thousands of years ahead of his own time technologically, could not.  
  
 _No pressure, Desmond. None at all._  
  
Ezio doesn't speak for sometime, and when he does, his voice is heavy with emotion.   
  
“What do I remember? That's an interesting question, Desmond."

Ezio takes a deep breath before continuing.  
  
“I remember everything of my life up until meeting Minerva. I have memories past that, but they are as if I were viewing them through glass. It is not easy to explain. I have memories of being an old man. Of marriage and children. I have memories of finding the bones of the great eagle of Masyaf, of laying them to rest, and of speaking to you, though I could not see you – but those memories are disconnected; unclear. There are even periods of my life in which I must have lived, yet of which I have no memories of at all”  
  
“From the animus,” Desmond interjects. “You remember my experiences of your memories.”  
  
Ezio nods and continues.   
  
“That would appear to be so. I also have some memories which appear to be yours, some of this assassin that we are to find, some of his father's, and some of Altair's.”  
  
Ezio sighs and squeezes his arm, before continuing.   
  
“I do not understand half of the memories I have, Desmond. And I do not wish to dwell on them either, they raise some... uncomfortable questions that I cannot answer.”  
  
Ezio grabs both of his shoulders and forces Desmond to face him.  
  
“I know that I am here for a reason, as are you. I know that my whole life was spent seeking answers; seeking a reason for the conflicts in which I always found myself the center of. But I am just one man, and I have always known that I would never be able to answer those questions on my own. Fate has seemed fit to put me with you, however, and you will do what I could not.”  
  
Desmond swallows, feels Ezio's breath ghost against the side of his face, as Ezio's eyes glow with a fierce intensity.  
  
“I am your blade, Desmond Miles. Wield me as you see fit.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He that will not work shall not eat.” – Captain John Smith

It is early evening when the Clan Mother summons them. She holds a wooden box in front of her, which Desmond knows contains an apple. Ezio appears to recognize the box as well, as his eyes widen just a fracture before he manages to school them into neutrality.   
  
Three young women carry various food items and water jugs. Desmond can smell the stew from where he sits, and while he had never been a fan of game meat – he likes his burgers and fries, thank you very much – his mouth is already salivating. According to Ezio, he hasn't eaten for three days, and while he did not wake up hungry, the presence of the food has reminded his stomach that meal time is long past due.  
  
“Sit. Eat. And then we will speak,” the Clan Mother speaks in heavily accented English. Desmond can get down with that, and by the rumble coming from Ezio's stomach, he is pretty sure that his companion agrees with this plan.   
  
One of the women hands him a cup of water and a wooden bowl filled with stew. He places them down in front of him, accepts the wooden spoon and flatbread that is handed to him next, and without preamble, digs right in. The stew is thick with what seems to be pieces of venison, some root vegetables, and bits of squash. It is a little gamey, but warm and thick and filling. He dips the flatbread in the stew, and that is like the _best thing ever_.   
  
Ezio makes no qualms about showing his appreciation for the meal either, as the Italian smacks his lips loudly with every bite, and proceeds to lick any dribbles off of his fingers. Desmond can only watch him eat for a moment, before his cheeks burn and he turns away. It shouldn't be erotic – he should most definitely _not_ be having erotic thoughts about his own ancestor, so he tells his brain that he is just not having them.  _Period._  
  
He lowers his head for good measure, and starts shoveling the stew in his mouth rapidly, just to be done with it. Ezio notices this and quirks an eyebrow at him  until he has Desmond's attention again. Then he smirks, and smacks his lips even louder, kissing the tips of his fingers and letting out an audible hum of appreciation.  
  
“Delicious,” he says, and that's it, Desmond is going straight to hell and can't look back at the man for the rest of the meal.  
  
Eventually, he is saved from his self-imposed pit of embarrassment and isolation by the Clan Mother clearing her throat. She opens the box, and the apple flickers very brightly for one brief moment before waning into a steady glow. Desmond tries to school his face into an expression of curiosity, but he is the only one who manages to do so. Ezio's eyes are cold and hard and completely focused on the apple.  
  
“We have used this tool for many generations to speak with those who have lived on this land before. But their voices have gone quiet.”  
  
She lifts the apple out of the box and holds it in front of Desmond.   
  
“For generations, it has been our duty to protect the secrets of the cave of the ancestors. The cave is no more, but instead has given us you. It seems to be the will of the spirits, then, that we offer our protection to you. There is power in this tool, for those who are able to wield it. Our Ratonhnhaké:ton was gifted with such an ability, but the spirits have already sent him on his journey.  Perhaps this tool is meant for one of you.”

  
Desmond carefully takes the apple from her hand. The apple glows briefly, yet bright enough to make the early evening appear as if it were the middle of the day again, before fading entirely. Desmond nods, and hands the apple to Ezio, where it reacts similarly before winking out once again.  
  
The Clan Mother nods in satisfaction, and motions for them to keep it.   
  
“There is not much power left in this apple,” Ezio comments as he hands the apple back to Desmond. Desmond carefully tucks the apple in his hoodie pocket with the iphone, and zips it closed. The noise of the zipper generates some interest from Ezio, and Desmond makes a mental note to show him all his fun and futuristic gizmos when he gets an opportunity.   
  
“You must use it wisely, and only at great need,” Ezio continues. “Perhaps we won't need to use it at all. That would be best.”  
  
Considering how much trouble precursor technology has already landed them in, Desmond can only agree.  
  


* * *

  
  
In the morning, after a breakfast of eggs and cornbread –  _Kana'tarokhón:we_ , according to Desmond's young friend – they are given some basic provisions by the Clan Mother and sent on their way. Knowing that they seek an audience with Ratonhnhaké:ton, she points them in the direction of the Davenport homestead, and instructs them to seek out the old man who shares their symbol. 

"It will be a good two days journey by foot," she tells them.  
  
They thank her, Desmond taking an extra moment to ruffle the hair of his young friend, and then the two of them are off. It is a beautiful country, one of which Ezio is most eager to explore, but they aren't out of the village for an hour before Desmond complains loudly about the state of his body and his clothing. Ezio cocks his head to the side; although sleeping in his clothes for three days has rumpled the cloth some, the strange jacket his companion is wearing is the whitest fabric Ezio has ever seen; it certainly does not warrant a cleaning at this time. Nor does Desmond exude a particular strong odor, and he tells him so.  
  
“You complain much my friend, but smell like roses. We have bigger concerns.”  
  
This works well enough; the younger man lets out an odd sound, changes color again – Ezio notices with amusement that he does that often – then continues on foot, head down. Ezio smirks and follows, alert to the dangers of the forest.   
  
When he hears a noise from the brush, a low growl, he grabs Desmond's arm and presses his finger against his lips when the man turns, the question on his lips immediately muted. The other assassin is instantly alert, and releases his hidden blade just moments before the strange cat is upon them. Desmond is quick to bury his hidden blade into its heart as it pounces, killing it instantly.   
  
“Yuck,” Desmond says as he pushes the dead cat off of his blade. “Bobcat blood.”   Desmond carefully cleans his blade off in the grass the best he can before retracting it back into his sleeve.  
  
Ezio pulls a dagger from his pouch and starts skinning the cat, much to the disgust of his companion.  
  
“Dude – what are you doing? We don't have to do that.”  
  
“It can be traded for currency in this time, no? At least, that is what I gathered from the memories I received from you. I don't know how many opportunities we are going to have to separate the local people from their valuables, I am fairly sure that my florins are not going to purchase either good wine or good women, and any currency you have on you is useless.”  
  
“Whatever. I am not skinning cats, just saying. I am sure there is a patrol or two we can gank between here and Davenport. They have to have a few pounds on them, plus maybe some, I dunno, less conspicuous clothing?”  
  
Ezio regards Desmond with a critical eye.   
  
“Your manner of speech is crude and confusing, but you raise a good point. I imagine we must look very out of place to the people of this time. We shall have to remedy that before we make ourselves known to the assassin.”  
  
“Yeah, about that, now that you mention it,” Desmond interjects, as Ezio carefully rolls the skin and ties it with some bits of twine given to them by the Clan Mother. “I'm not sure it's in our best interest to just approach him directly. I mean, c'mon, what are we gonna say? Hello, we're your relatives from the future and the past, and we're here to make sure you make nice with your daddy, so we can save the future world from burning from massive space rays? I think we'd both end up with an arrow in our chest before we could shake his hand.”  
  
Ezio nods thoughtfully.   
  
“I have been giving that some consideration myself,” he says, securing the rolled up bobcat skin to his belt. He debates taking some of the meat to cook up later, but although he has lived off of the land before, he has never eaten any sort of cat and doesn't find it even remotely appetizing, especially when the land seems to be rife with plenty of deer and birds of prey. He decides to leave it.  
  
“This Connor, he is creating a village, no?”  
  
“Yeah... the Davenport homestead. He's pretty proud of it, actually.”  
  
“And that is how we will present ourselves, then. We are two travelers seeking a place to call home. I am a minstrel by trade, but alas we were set upon by thieves, and my lute has gone missing. If he would but obtain another one for me, I would be most grateful, and provide my musical services to the people of Davenport.”  
  
Desmond looks thoughtful for a moment.  
  
“That... actually might work.”  
  
Ezio grins brilliantly, claps his hand on Desmond's shoulder.  
  
“See, my friend? No worries, as you say.”  
  
They continue on for a few more moments until Desmond turns to Ezio again, a question in his eyes.  
  
“What am I going to do in Davenport?”  
  
Ezio grins, showing way too many teeth, and can see the wariness in Desmond's eyes as the other man backs away, frowning.  
  
“Isn't it obvious? You will be my young, completely infatuated lover.”  
  
Desmond chokes, pulls away, mumbles something about 'tending bar at the inn instead', and Ezio laughs heartily, feeling free and himself for the first time since landing in this strange and new country.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He who would be free must strike the first blow” – Frederick Douglass

The night was damned cold, and it had been a very long time since Desmond had slept outside on the hard ground under nothing but the sky. He was restless all night, and kept waking at the slightest breeze, or noise. Ezio insisted that they put the fire out before they went to sleep, so as not to attract unwanted attention when they were vulnerable, and the warmth from the coals had long since faded.  
  
Desmond understood, he really did, but his body was just not used to roughing it like this. Ezio, on the other hand, was dead to the world, perfectly comfortable in his own body, laying sprawled out on the ground, and taking up way too much space for one man.   Desmond had been laying next to him, but that had changed when he found out that the Italian was an unconscious cuddler.  Desmond couldn't even get close to him for warmth without finding himself trapped beneath an arm or a leg, Ezio snoring into his neck, and yeah, that was as awkward as hell.   
  
And that was the way he had woken up a few times, because apparently his subconscious sleepy self kept rolling into the bastard. He supposed he should be grateful that his great-great-great-great-great-great-whatever (and he's sure there are a few more greats in there) recognizes him as an ally now on a subconscious level, safe enough to get close to him in his sleep, otherwise Desmond probably would have woken up more than a few times with a blade in his chest. Therefore, he was resigned to a sleepless and uncomfortable night, and got what sleep he could, but was nowhere near anything remotely resembling rested when he was woken up at ass o'clock in the morning by  _drums_  of all things.  
  
He had to give Ezio his dues where it counted though – that man when from quietly snoring to sitting up, fully alert and awake in less time it took for Desmond to clear his throat.  
  
Ezio quietly grabs his belt, which had been laid to the side, all its various instruments of death still attached, and puts it on before doing the same with his hidden blades. It's almost eerie how silent he is in his preparation.   
  
Desmond is not nearly as silent as he gets to his feet, sighs, and mumbles to himself for a few moments as he looks for his own blades – _ah, over there, how the hell did they get way over there?_ – which earns him a harsh look of admonishment from his companion, and a low, mumbled 'novice' under his breath.  
  
Desmond pinks; he is not Altair, but has spent enough time in the man's memories to take deep offense to that word, and he suspects Ezio knows it by the slight smirk that appears on his face when Desmond glares at him.   
  
The drums get louder, and sound as if they are coming from beneath them. Ezio points to a nearby rock face overlooking the road, and Desmond's eyes follow. Quietly, they climb up to the edge, where Desmond focuses his eagle vision. There are a total of eight soldiers on foot and two officers on horseback. Two of the foot soldiers are drumming, but the rest are armed with muskets slung over their shoulders. One of the officers on a spotted palomino looks half asleep, but the other one seems to be loading a pistol.   
  
Ezio casts him a quick look, points to himself, and the two officers on horseback. He then points to Desmond and indicates the two drummer boys.   
  
Desmond's look sours even more, because  _really?_  But he is a trained assassin, and does not question orders, even when given by sanctimonious assholes who doubt his skill set.   
  
Ezio smiles at him, winks, and then he is jumping off of the side of the rock face.   
  
That's his queue, Ezio is on his own, as Desmond does the same, taking the two drummers out with his hidden blades in an arial assault that sends a rush of adrenaline right to his heart, and then it is  _on._    
  
Desmond can't see what Ezio is doing, but the palomino runs by him riderless, and he can hear the surprised yell from the other officer. The air is rent with the sound of a gunshot; Desmond can only hope that Ezio is okay before one of the armed guards tries to drive a musket into his side. He pivots, flipping quickly to catch the blade of another musket before he shoves the back end of it into right into its owner's chest, making the man stumble back. Desmond's on him in a second. He feels the sensation of danger from behind, and he doesn't even think; just grabs the man's body and flips around, using him as a human shield for the four musket shots that had been fired, perilously close to where Desmond just stood not even half a second ago. He drops the dead guard on the ground, takes the dead man's musket, and launches himself into the remaining group of guards before they have a chance to reload.  
  
The second horse runs by, riderless, and a sword rips through the belly of one of the five remaining guards circling him. They are down to four now, two of whom are pale white and look as if they would rather be anywhere but here. Sure enough, they turn tail and run.  
  
 _“Go --”_  shouts Ezio, as he continues to battle the other two remaining guards, and Desmond drops the musket and runs to follow the two that ran off. They are too fast; one of them almost reaches the palomino that is still hanging around, further up the road.  
  
Swearing to himself, Desmond pulls his 23 caliber out and shoots them both in the back in rapid succession. They fall, and he is quickly on them with his hidden blades to finish the job. When he turns around, Ezio has already dispatched the other two guards, and is limping towards him favoring his right leg.  
  
Desmond doesn't think, he runs to the man, practically barreling him down in his haste to get to him. He falls to his knees in the road, hands pulling at fabric to see the damage. God, Ezio had been shot. That could be a death sentence in this time. There were infections and things, and no antibiotics, and he did not know what the hell he would do if he were left here alone and he did not know how to make penicillin, he knew it had to do with moldy bread, but–  
  
“Stop worrying so hard, my friend, he only grazed me. See?”   
  
Ezio sways slightly, and rests a hand on Desmond's head to steady himself. With his other hand, he works at the buttons of his breeches. He is clumsy about it, obviously in pain, and trying not to show it.  
  
Desmond curses under his breath, and pushes Ezio's hand out of the way.  
  
“Easy, man. Just... stop, I'll do it.”  
  
Desmond undoes the rest of the buttons, and pulls the fabric down far enough to see the angry red welt against Ezio's left thigh where the bullet grazed him. Desmond swears, grabs Ezio's canteen off of his belt, and splashes water over the wound.   
  
“Stay right there,” He orders, as Ezio winces. He's on his feet in a flash, searching the body of the nearest soldier. When he doesn't find what he's looking for, he moves on to the body of the officer who appeared dazed, and ah – _there it is_. He takes the small wooden canteen, rips some fabric off of the dead man's shirt, and returns to Ezio.  
  
“This is going to sting,” Desmond says, as he splashes whatever spirits the man had in his canteen onto Ezio's leg. Ezio sucks in a breath, but doesn't move, and then Desmond is carefully field dressing the wound the best he can with the torn bit of dirty fabric. His hands are shaking as he falls back to sit on his heels and look up at Ezio.   
  
Desmond pulls his hand through his hair.   
  
“We'll uh... we'll have to get that looked at, when we get to Davenport... hopefully Connor will have recruited that doctor already, but yeah. That should be good for now...  _dammit_.”  
  
Ezio says nothing, just stares at him with a strange look in his eyes that Desmond can't place, before offering a hand.   
  
And then it occurs to Desmond that he is sitting on his heels before Ezio with the man's pants halfway down to his ankles, and he flushes furiously and coughs into his hand before allowing the other man to pull him to his feet.  
  
Thankfully, Ezio does not mention this at all as he carefully fixes his pants, before clasping Desmond on the back.  
  
Ezio's gaze is intense when he meets it.  
  
“Thank you my friend. I fear I did not properly anticipate some of the weaponry of this time, and I was... careless. It will not happen again.”  
  
“Yeah,” Desmond replies, because he needs to gain control of this situation _right now_. “See that it doesn't.”  
  
The smile he gets from Ezio in return is not the carefree smirk he is used to, but warm and genuine in a way that has Desmond turning away. 

* * *

  
  
“This is the most god-awful scratchy material ever made. And so freakin' hot, I feel like a stuffed turkey. How did those guys ever move in these things? And these boots! They are like a size too small, too narrow, and they smell. My toes are going to blacken and fall off before we get to Davenport. Thank shit we don't have to wear the coats, because I'd be  _dying_.” Desmond tries to tie the officer's sword to his belt, scowling as it brushes against his leg.  
  
Ezio sighs as he continues to secure all their remaining gear to the palomino mare. It was a fortunate turn of events that she only ran a short ways up the road, and Ezio had always had a way with females of any species. It was a simple thing to settle a skittish mare, after all... or colt, for that matter, but he has not the patience for it at the moment.  
  
“The leather on the boots will adapt to your feet; they fit well enough. It is your mouth that needs adjustment.”  
  
He doesn't mean to sound harsh, but his leg  _hurts_. It had been a stupid mistake; he should have been more aware, should have known. He did not recognize the weapon for what it was until it was too late; it was not a mistake he could afford to make again.  
  
Desmond glares at him, but the glare fades away quickly as he meets Ezio's eyes.   
  
Ezio tries hard to school his face into an expression of neutrality. He does not like feeling weak, and he does not like others knowing that he feels that way.   
  
“You should ride the rest of the way,” Desmond says to him, “I will lead on foot. And, hey, look at the bright side – your injury and these shitty clothes we are wearing all say 'robbed by thieves and scavenged off of dead men'. We'll just stash our shit somewhere close by, and retrieve it after we play at being damsels in distress.”  
  
Ezio huffs, but does not comment, as he allows Desmond to help him onto the horse.   
  
The rest of the trip to Davenport passes in relative quiet and peace, for which Ezio gives thanks. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cursed is the ground because of you;  
> in toil you shall eat of it. . . .  
> you are dust,  
> and to dust you shall return. 3:17, 19

_“Wait for me, Uncle!” the boy shouts, laughing as his uncle climbs the tree with the arms of a monkey. Dark eyes turn down to smile at him, offering a hand up, when he can't quite reach the top branches._   
  
_“Perhaps if you had more muscle than bone on those arms, you would not need my assistance,” the older man says, his eyes sparkling with amusement._   
  
_The boy huffs loudly._   
  
_“One day, I will be stronger than either you or Father. I will be a hunter and a warrior, and you will both be weak old men.”_   
  
_The man laughs._   
  
_“I am sure you will be,” the man says, ruffling the boy's hair. “Now, open your eyes and see with your second sight why I brought you up here.”_   
  
_The boy opens his eyes wide and truly looks. The rolling green hills, and sun-speckled river do not even compare to the majesty of the glittering city he can just barely see over the horizon, reaching up into the very clouds. He feels small and insignificant against the backdrop of such grandeur._   
  
_“Do you see, Enoch? Do you understand?”_   
  


* * *

  
  
“Wake up, boy. You are needed on the homestead.”  
  
Connor awakens to the rough hand of Achilles on his shoulder, pulling him out of his sleep. He blinks his eyes warily, rubbing the sleep out of them with his fist. He had fallen asleep again reading from one of the story books given to him by Father Timothy; the book was still half open on his bed.  
  
Achilles nudges him again, a little less gently.  
  
“Get up, already. You going to sleep all day, boy? Do your people allow you to do that?”  
  
Connor shoots his mentor a dark look, before tossing the cover off of him and stretching. A quick glance out the window confirms that the sun is already well on its path to the middle of the sky.   
  
“I am sorry, old man.” He apologizes sheepishly. “My dreams have been... vivid as of late.”  
  
“Hmph,” Achilles mumbles, picking up the discarded book. “Father Timothy trying to convert you already?”  
  
Connor is not sure what Achilles means, so he says nothing. Achilles eventually shakes his head and sighs, closing the book and placing it on his nightstand.  
  
“Just get dressed and come downstairs. Get something to eat and go see Doctor White when you're ready. He needs your... assistance.”  
  
“Is it Prudence? Is the baby okay?”   
  
“Nothing like that,” Achilles answers, shaking his head. “A couple of travelers found their way into the homestead this morning, claiming to have been robbed. One of them has been shot; he is being tended to by Doctor White at the moment.”  
  
Achilles looks contemplative as he says this, and Connor narrows his eyes at his mentor.  
  
“You don't believe that they speak the truth?”  
  
“I didn't say that... just... one of them came to the door this morning to deliver the message from Doctor White. There was something... I can't put my finger on it, but... “ Achilles shakes his head and frowns. “Just assess the situation and return to me. And Connor?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Be careful.”  
  


* * *

  
  
“You think he's going to be here soon? I mean, it's gotta be like 11 o'clock already. I gave the letter to the old man about three hours ago. It's not that far of a walk.”  
  
“If I could only be so lucky,” Lyle mumbles under his breath, carefully removing another bloody piece of metal from his patient's leg and dropping it into the bowl.   
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Did your mother ever teach you that patience was a virtue, young man?”   
  
Desmond scowls at the 'doctor', thinking he doesn't deserve the title. He doesn't know where this so-called doctor learned his skills, but even Desmond knew that you needed to wash your hands and sterilize your equipment before working on a patient. The doctor was not very happy with Desmond for appropriating his good spirits just to splash them all over the doctor's hands and his creepy looking torture tools before Desmond would even let the man touch Ezio, but Desmond didn't care. The hell if Ezio was getting an infection on his watch.   
  
“Please, my good Doctor, do not take offense to my young friend. We are weary and have travelled long. I am thankful for your help,” Ezio says, all charm and smile, and for a second, Desmond just wants to punch him. Doesn't he see that this guy is a complete hack? Desmond could have done a better job taking care of him than this asshole. He had some basic field medic training after all; all assassins did at the farm. Why did he suggest that Ezio get his leg looked at by this man again?  
  
Oh, that's right,  _the plan._  
  
Fucking plans. They always ruin his day.  
  
“Shouldn't he be here by now?” Desmond asks again.  
  
Doctor White groans, drops another piece of something bloody from Ezio's leg into the bowl and lifts up a glass vial from his medicine kit which he proceeds to wave in front of Desmond's face.  
  
“Chloride of mercury and, more importantly,  _not_  a ten pound bottle of imported Irish whiskey,” the man says pointedly, pouring some on a rag, of which Desmond can't help to notice is dirty and stained. Desmond grimaces, but holds his tongue as the doctor wipes Ezio's wound with the voodoo concoction. Ezio grips the side of the bed tightly, but offers Desmond a smile.  
  
When Dr. White is done cleaning the wound, he reaches for the threaded needle and Desmond splashes more of the the whiskey on it before he gets his stupid, grubby fingers on it.  


* * *

  
  
Connor is all but yanked in the door when he arrives at Lyle's clinic.  
  
“Is everything okay, Doctor White?” He asks, after he recovers from the manhandling.  
  
“Yes. Of course. Everything is okay. Just wonderful. And they are all yours. I am going to see if Oliver has some of that really strong ale in stock.”  
  
“But –“ Connor interrupts as the doctor slides by him and out the door. “...it is the middle of the day,” he finishes lamely, as the door closes in his face. Connor shrugs his head, and enters the patient area.   
  
Two sets of very similar brown eyes assess him as he enters. The older of the two men is sitting on the cot, carefully tying the knot of his ill-fitting breeches. Long hair is pulled back from his head and secured with a red tie, and the man sports a short, but immaculately kept beard. His eyes are open and friendly, and he is smiling widely at him.  
  
The younger man is slouching and radiating indifference. His arms are folded in front of him, one foot leaning against the wall. But for the shorter hair and skin tone – the older being somewhat fairer than the younger – he would assume they were brothers. They both have a very similar scar gracing their upper lip. A strange coincidence, Connor thinks. He wonders how they obtained them.  
  
Something on the younger man's arm catches his eye.  Just peeking out of his sleeve is the hint of an elaborate design set into the man's skin, in the fashion of the Iroquois. Perhaps the younger man was a halfbreed, like himself. A native half-brother to the elder.  
  
“Ah,” the older man begins, his voice thick and heavy with a foreign accent that Connor does not recognize. “You must be the young man the good doctor spoke so highly of.”  
  
Connor nods.   
  
“I am known around here as Connor.”  
  
“You are known as Connor? That is not your true name, then?” The older man asks.   
  
“My true name is Ratonhnhaké:ton, of the Kanien'keha:ka people.”  
  
“It is good to meet you, Ratonhnhaké:ton of Kanien'keha:ka. I am Mario Erudito of Italia.”   
  
An indecipherable look passes between the two men at this, of which Connor takes notice.   
  
“And your quiet companion?”  
  
“Desmond. Desmond Miles,” the younger man says confidently, and in a completely different accent from the elder.   
  
It is not an Iroquois name, nor does the younger man offer one. A puzzle then. Connor will have to think on it later.  
  
“You are not brothers?” Connor asks, tilting his head.   
  
The younger man snorts, while the elder laughs heartily.   
  
“No, we are as you say, a distant relation. Which is unfortunate for my young cousin, as he has not been born with the looks that my side of the family is well known for,” Mario says, smirking at the younger man, who rolls his eyes in return.   
  
Connor regards the two men in front of him curiously. He's not sure why Achilles asked him to be wary of these men. They seem harmless enough, and the teasing between them reminds him much of the relationship between Terry and Godfrey. Just to be sure, he focuses his second sight on the men. They glow blue, which is admittedly odd; most civilians do not glow at all, unless they present an opportunity to hide, in which case they glow white. Blue is usually reserved for his recruits. Could they be brothers of another sort?  
  
He folds his ring finger under in the way that Achilles taught him, and offers his hand to Mario.   
  
“It is good to meet you and your cousin as well, Mario Erudito,” he says, watching the men carefully for any reaction. Desmond continues to look bored, while Mario just meets his eyes and encloses his hand with both of his own, shaking vigorously. Neither of them return the signal, nor show any indication of even having noticed it. Something in Connor subconsciously relaxes.  
  
“So what can I do for you gentlemen?” Connor asks.  
  
“My cousin and I have been traveling for a long time, and we are looking for a place to settle. We were on our way to Boston, when we were set upon by thieves, our money and possessions taken from us. We have spent the last several days in clothes that we had to scavenge off of the dead, where I was shot by a man who was not quite as dead as we thought.”  
  
Connor takes a quick appraisal of their apparel, and wonders if they had stumbled upon one of the patrols he had recently found edging too close to the boundaries of the homestead. If so, then his kills weren't as clean as he thought they were; it was very likely that Mario's injury was due to his recklessness.   
  
“Were these dead men soldiers?”  
  
“Yes, a British patrol. We were fortunate to find one of their mares further up the road; she was able to take me the rest of the way here, where we met your good doctor.”  
  
Connor bows his head in shame. It is his fault, he is sure of it.  
  
“I... am sorry for your injury.”  
  
“It is nothing, my friend. But we could use a place to stay while I recover.”  
  
This, Connor can do.   
  
“I will speak to my friends Oliver and Corrine. They have an inn I am sure you can stay at while you recover,” he says, eagerly. “Perhaps you might like it here. We are always looking for new residents.”  
  
Mario's eyes glitter with warmth, and Connor feels pleased with himself.  
  
“Perhaps.”  


* * *

  
  
Later, after getting his new friends set up at the Inn, Connor returns to the manor where Achilles is practically waiting for him at the front door.  
  
“So?”  
  
Connor shrugs his shoulders and throws up empty hands.   
  
“I could not decipher any ill intent. They are as they appear to be. I have them set up at the inn for now. Ellen has offered to tailor new clothes for them as their own have been stolen, and the ones that they are wearing are ill-fitting and scavenged. She seemed to be quite taken with them.”  
  
Achilles regards him warily, stroking his chin with the hand that is not holding his cane.  
  
“Just... keep an eye on them, boy.”  
  
“I will.”  


* * *

  
  
“Well, that almost went to shit. Did you catch the hand thing?”  
  
“Do you think I am a novice, Desmond Miles? Of course I saw the signal. I believe our young friend was just confused about how we appeared to his second sight.”  
  
“Yeah? Well we better damn well hope we don't show up as red to Haytham,  _Mario_ , or we are going to have to rethink everything.”  
  
“I think you worry too much, Desmond. Get some sleep. And please try not to snore, you nearly woke the dead last night. It was horrible,” Ezio says from his bed, turning to Desmond with a smirk.  
  
Desmond throws his pillow at him. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I sin, what do I do to you, you watcher of humanity?  
> Why have you made me your target?  
> Why have I become a burden to you?  
> (Job 7:20)

_“We must act now, while they are distracted,” his father says angrily, his feet burning a path into the ground as he paces back and forth._  
  
 _Enoch is hiding behind the feed for the donkeys, trying to control his breathing. He knows he will be whipped by his father if he is found._  
  
 _“But why, brother? Our people are not warriors. We are farmers and families. We are happy, and there is enough land for us all to share.”_  
  
 _“You say that now, Abel, but you are young and have no wife, no family. You have not seen what they do, what they take when they come. What they make our people do.”_  
  
 _“And you would have our people go to war? Spears and stones against their great cities? You will only be sending our people to their deaths,” his uncle responds._  
  
 _“We have more than spears, Abel. We can use their own weapons against them. We will make our people strong.”_  
  
 _“And if we do so, how are we any better then them?”_  


* * *

  
  
It is nearly a week before Connor has an opportunity to check on the homestead again. By all accounts, their new guests are getting along well with most of the residents, of which he is pleased to hear. Norris has taken the quiet Desmond with him on a few occasions to help with mining, and the younger cousin has also been seen assisting Warren with the animals on the farmstead, leaving Prudence free to tend to a colicky Hunter. In the evenings, both Mario and Desmond can be found at the inn, earning their keep by helping with the bar and in the kitchen. Connor is glad of this; Oliver and Corrine do need the help, since Davenport Inn is becoming a busy spot for road-weary travelers on their way to and from Boston and there is also much to be done in preparation of the upcoming wedding. In fact, the only one who does not seem to like the cousins very much is Dr. White, but the Doctor does not elaborate on why. It does not appear to be much of a concern at any rate.   
  
And yet, even though the cousins appear to be benign to the residents of the homestead, Achilles is growing increasingly restless as each day passes and they remain. It is enough to have Connor up before the sun and on the rooftop of the inn, waiting and watching, but for what, he does not know.   
  
The sun is barely visible over the horizon when Desmond appears, barefoot and wearing only a pair of breeches. Desmond performs a cursory glance of his surroundings, and Connor makes sure that he cannot be seen from Desmond's viewpoint. There is no one awake on the homestead yet except for them and perhaps Warren, but Warren's farm cannot be easily seen from the Inn. Desmond likely believes that he is alone.  
  
For the first time, Connor can see the extent and precision of the design inked into Desmond's skin, and it is far more elaborate than anything he has seen amongst the Iroquois people. The design appears to be of an eagle set in a woman's face, and yet the lines that make up the overall design are so exquisitely symmetrical as to seem impossible. To have such a design carved into one's skin with a sharpened bone and charcoal would be extremely painful and take many days. Amongst his own people, such a design would represent great power and demand respect, if it could be done at all.   
  
His attention is drawn to the lines of the man's body as he stretches; all muscle and sharp angles. A warrior's body; toned and sharp, and yet there is not a single scar on Desmond's body that he can see, save for the one on his lip. It is most curious.  
  
He watches as Desmond begins a series of fluid motions that appear to serve no purpose. His movements are very slow and precise; repetitive and controlled, as he slowly pulls his leg straight out to the side, pivots, and just as slowly lets it down. Meanwhile, his arms are moving as if choreographed to the wind, pushing at the air as if there is force behind it. Every muscle in Desmond's body is disciplined and fluid as he moves. It is graceful in a way that is between that of a dancer and a warrior, and Connor cannot help but to find himself intrigued enough to move a little closer.  
  
It is then when Desmond notices him.  
  
“You can come down, you know. I don't bite, I promise,” Desmond says, but he does not stop his series of motions. Connor jumps down off the roof – no point in staying up there now – and leans up against the inn, watching Desmond outwardly now. There appears to be a set pattern of movements that Desmond is performing; repetitive, and yet careful.  
  
“What is it that you are doing?” Connor cannot help but ask.   
  
Desmond turns, bending one knee forward, the other leg extended straight back, and puts his arms out in front of him.   
  
“It is called t'ai chi ch'uan; it's an oriental martial art form. It's something I was taught as a child. Helps to keep me, I dunno, centered, I guess,” Desmond says with a sigh.  
  
That is a perfect opening, and Connor takes it.  
  
“It is not something I have seen around here. Do you come from very far away?”  
  
Desmond turns, offers him a sad smile.  
  
“You could say that,” Desmond responds. It is not much of an answer, so Connor prods some more.  
  
“And where is your home?”  
  
Desmond makes a sound like a huff before responding.  
  
“To be honest with you, I haven't had anything like a home in a while.”  
  
“You are a traveller then.”  
  
“Yeah, for quite a while now.”  
  
“And Mario? Is he a traveller as well?”  
  
“Yes, and no. I mean, I think he'd rather be back in Italy, playing his lute and singing to the ladies, you know what I mean? But we're kinda stuck together for the time being. Where I go, he goes.”  
  
Connor turns his head to the side, questioning.  
  
“Are you not happy with this arrangement?”  
  
Desmond turns suddenly, and laughs.  
  
“Man, you remind me of my dad... he was always really perceptive, saw through my bull... uh, yeah... anyway. You know, I'm really fine with it. Ez.. Mario is really great, I have a lot of respect for him and he's just, the man, you know? And this homestead... everyone here is so friendly and warm and unspoiled, and this land is just beautiful... it's just... sometimes it's nice to just sit down and take it all in and not have to worry about every fu... little thing, you know?”  
  
It is difficult to sort out Desmond's strange manner of speech, but Connor definitely understands the sentiment. He places his bow and quiver up against the wall of the inn. Desmond is watching him curiously.   
  
“Will you teach me this t'ai chi ch'uan, Desmond?” Connor asks. It earns him a brilliant smile that mirrors Mario's almost exactly.  
  
“Sure thing, buddy. Kick your boots off, and stretch out. We'll start with some basic hand forms and go from there.”  
  
Connor is a quick study, and is soon repeating the same motions as Desmond. At some point, Mario comes outside to lean against the wall and watch them. He feels a growing kinship to these men, feels at peace with them in a way that he cannot explain. His mind is still burning with curiosity, and they remain a puzzle to be solved. But he is fairly sure that they mean no harm to him or those he cares for.   


* * *

  
  
Ezio leans against the wall, watching Desmond as he laces up the new boots Ellen dropped off for him.  
  
“I think she has taken a liking to you, my friend,” he teases, motioning to the pile of shirts, waistcoats and breeches folded neatly next to Desmond's bed. Ezio's pile is not nearly so high.  
  
Desmond's face burns a bright red, and he runs a hand through his hair.  
  
“Uh... yeah. She said I was about the same size as her ex,” Desmond responds, deflecting.  
  
Ezio just looks at him, one eyebrow raised and arms crossed before him, and Desmond deflates, collapsing in on himself with a full bodied sigh.  
  
“It's just... she's nice and all, but... I can't afford to form any sort of attachments to these people here, you know? Besides, I'm notthatgreatwithgirlsanyway,” Desmond offers, the last part muffled into his fist.  
  
“No? Are you sure you are of my bloodline?” Ezio returns, his head cocked contemplatively to the side, one hand stroking his beard.  
  
“Hah fucking hah,” Desmond deadpans. “It's just... people I care for either end up templars or dead or dead templars... you know? It's hard to... let someone in like that.”  
  
Desmond hopes that he will just drop it, because he just does not want to start talking about Lucy. All that shit just brings up bad memories. He never wants to be in a position again where he has to kill the people he cares about, and it's just so much easier if he doesn't care at all. Except that he does. He's only been here a week and he already cares far too much. He cares about Ezio;  _has_  cared about him from the moment he realized he dragged him into this bullshit as well, but it's not just Ezio. It's this place, these people, Connor himself. It's all innocent and unspoiled and so, so beautiful that his heart aches with it. And it is so hard to know what's going to happen, not knowing if he can change it, not knowing if he even  _should._  Too many questions, not enough answers, and no one to ask.  
  
Ezio doesn't speak, just places a warm supportive hand on his shoulder and squeezes, and for a moment, it is enough.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I will give them an undivided heart and put a new spirit in them; I will remove from them their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh. -- Ezekiel 11:19

_Enoch is fourteen now; a young man, according to his father, and he is learning the way of the knife and the spear._   
  
_His father says that he needs to know how to fight; that war is coming and he needs to be ready. He feels the unrest amongst his people, and he sees the growing enmity in his family that has only increased with the passing of his grandparents._   
  
_Enoch is confused. He has never even seen their enemy._   
  
_“Go, Enoch,” his uncle says to him one day. “Go to where your father forbids and tell me if you agree with his plan.”_

* * *

  
  
_There are people gathering fruit as he approaches the gleaming city, all of the fruit trees arranged in neat rows. The people wear strange clothing, and do not speak to each other as they work._   
  
_There is a girl about his age sitting alone in the shade. She is different then the others, young and beautiful and animated. She holds a ripe red fruit in one hand and a gold sphere in the other._   
  
_The girl startles upon his approach. The sphere in her hand glows brightly as she holds it up. Around him, everyone stops what they are doing and holds perfectly still._   
  
_Everyone but Enoch._   
  
_“Who are you?” The girl asks. “You are not like the others.”_   
  
_“My name is Enoch,” he answers, sitting besides her. She regards him warily for a moment before she slowly lowers the sphere. The people around them resume their work._   
  
_“I am Menrva,” she replies. “Would you like an apple?”_   
  
_She offers him the bright red fruit. He takes a bite from it and smiles._   
  
_Tentatively, she smiles back._

* * *

  
  
The instrument Connor brings to him one day has less strings than the lutes he is used to, with a longer neck and a deeper, richer sound. The body of the instrument is reminiscent of the curves of a woman, and there is an elaborate design etched into the fingerboard. The wood itself is rich and dark, and the sound hole is completely circular and open, around which there are flowers painted in gold leaf. The headstock and tuners are not folded over like he is accustomed to, and it takes a moment for Ezio to find a comfortable way to hold the instrument.   
  
“I am sorry if it is not quite what you were looking for. I wasn't able to find a lute, but the trader I purchased this instrument from assures me that it is very similar,” Connor says, almost apologetically. “It is called a guitar.”  
  
“She is beautiful,” Ezio responds. He plays at a couple of the strings, and is relieved that they are in the familiar g – d – a – f – c – G scale that he knows well, the only difference being that there is one string per note as opposed to two. He'll have to make adjustments for the way the instrument sits across his body when he holds it, and of course for the length of the fingerboard, but he is dextrous with his fingers. He just needs time, and he will be able to play the instrument like the beautiful lady that she is.   
  
“Thank you, my friend."  
  
Connor beams at him.  
  
“I am glad that you are pleased. I was hoping that you would be able to play for us at the reception on Saturday.”  
  
Of course, time is a luxury that evades him, as usual.  
  
“I... will do my best, but I must tell you that all the songs that I know are in Italian.”  
  
“I don't think I can help you there,” Connor says, tilting his head with his hand on his chin. “Perhaps Corrine?”  
  
Ezio laughs.   
  
“That lovely lady knows a few limericks or two, but they are not songs that can be sung in polite company,” Ezio says, resting his hand on Connor's shoulder. Connor tenses up immediately, and Ezio allows his hand to slip down to the younger man's elbow, looking at him curiously. The younger man does not relax his body until Ezio drops his hand entirely. Ezio pretends not to notice.   
  
“But do not worry, my friend,” he continues. “for I am resourceful.”  
  
Connor nods, clears his throat and unconsciously takes a step back, folding his arms in front of him. A defensive movement, for which Ezio wants nothing more than to strangle the templar bastard who traumatized Connor when he was a boy, resulting in such anxiety over a simple human gesture, even now. Perhaps he will have the chance. He can only hope.  
  
“How is your leg?” Connor asks after a moment, meeting Ezio's eyes once again.  
  
“It is healing well. Doctor White tells me that he should be able to remove the stitches soon.”  
  
“That is good to hear. Have you given any further thought to making your stay in Davenport more permanent?”  
  
Ezio laughs, reaching out as if to grab Connor's shoulder again, before he reigns in the subconscious action and grasps his hands behind his back, forcing them to stay put. His observant young friend tenses and then relaxes, tilting his head curiously, as if he did not expect such a courtesy.   
  
“I believe that --”   
  
“Connor!” Desmond interrupts, out of breath as he appears in the doorway to their room. “Big Dave is looking for you, man. Something about Ellen's ex.”  
  
Connor's eyes go cold and hard. Ezio carefully sets the guitar down by the side of his bed.  
  
“Do you need assistance, my friend?”  
  
“Are you able yet to run?”  
  
Ezio grins in response. 

* * *

  
  
Desmond is full of anticipation when they catch up to Dave, who has already managed to gather most of the men on the homestead, all of them angry and ready for a fight.   
  
“Connor!” Dave shouts when he sees them, “Ellen's dullard of a man is trying to break down her door with his mates! We're on our way to stop it!”  
  
A rush of adrenaline fills him as they run towards Ellen's home. He very clearly remembers this event from the animus, and is eagerly looking forward to it. Ellen has been particularly good to them since they've been here, and deserves much better than this dickhead. Plus, he wouldn't be completely honest with himself if he didn't admit to going a little stir-crazy with all the domestic shit he's been doing lately. A bit of ass-kicking therapy was well overdue.   
  
As they run, Ezio catches his eye, making a hand gesture that he interprets as  _'keep it on the down low'_. Desmond rolls his eyes, but acknowledges with a slight nod of the head.   
  
When they arrive at the house, there is already a goon on each window, one pounding on the front door, and about ten other guys surrounding the dickhead who orchestrated this in a protective circle. Connor immediately launches himself at the guy kicking down Ellen's door, while Ezio pulls the guy at the front window back by the fabric of his waistcoat, and eagerly proceeds to pummel him. Big Dave is quickly on the one at the side window, so Desmond takes it upon himself to start working through dickhead's circle of bodyguards. It is almost too easy to put these guys down, even holding back, but then Connor turns to watch him, eyes narrowed into slits, and Desmond allows the next guy to land a solid hit against his side. He paces himself, trading hits back and forth with his opponent until Connor's attention is elsewhere, and then he puts the man down with a flying kick to the head.   
  
Ezio glares at him, but Desmond just shakes his head. No regrets, the asshole deserved it.   
  
It isn't long until dickhead himself joins the fray, and Desmond watches with no small amount of satisfaction as Connor beats the ever loving shit out of him. He almost feels sorry for the guy –  _almost_  – when Connor holds him up by the lapels of his coat, and the guy pisses himself in fear as Connor snarls at him.  
  
Desmond smiles, thinking to himself that Connor is a hell of a lot more bad-ass in person than he ever was in the animus. 

* * *

  
  
Ezio does not say one single word to him as they return to the inn.  
  
“Well, that was fun,” Desmond finally says, when the quiet becomes uncomfortable. Ezio is still not talking when Corrine places a plate of roast chicken and carrots in front of them both, followed by two tankards full of ale.  
  
“It was a good thing you lot did today, helping Ellen like that,” Corrine says, full of affection. “I'm proud of you.”  
  
“Happy to do it. That man was vermin. She deserves better,” Desmond responds.   
  
Corrine smiles coyly, pinches his cheek like a mom. “Aye, that she does,” she says, winking at him. Desmond coughs into his fist.  
  
“Her too, now? Is like the whole town on board the hookup train?” Desmond mumbles under his breath, turning his head to watch as Corrine walks away.  
  
Ezio slams his fist down on the table, almost spilling his ale in the process, and Desmond jerks his attention back to him. Peripherally, he notices the door to the inn opening, but he cannot look away from Ezio. The man's eyes are burning with barely hidden anger, and Desmond feels all the blood drain from his face.   
  
“You are a fool, Desmond Miles. You did not fight today like a barkeep. You fought like an  _assassin._  What the hell were you thinking?”  
  
Desmond has witnessed the barely restrained fury of Ezio Auditore on many occasions in the animus, but it is nothing –  _nothing_  – like having all that power and aggression directly focused on him. Ezio looks like he is about two seconds away from burying his hidden blade deep into Desmond's chest.   
  
“Shit, just... calm down, man!” Desmond responds, pulling his hand through his hair and taking a deep swig of his ale. He puts his cup down for a moment, meets Ezio's eyes again, and then just torpedoes down the whole damned cup. When the icy glare directed at him doesn't lessen, he takes Ezio's ale and empties it down his throat as well, thinking he needs to be a hell of a lot drunker to deal with a pissed off Ezio Auditore.  
  
Ezio's eye twitches, and Desmond swallows.  
  
“I'm sorry, okay? I wasn't thinking... I've been through this before, and let me tell you, those bastards deserved it, siding with that dickhead. He – did you know that he's been stealing from her, cheating on her, gambling her money away, coming home drunk and beating both her and her daughter? I just... I like Ellen, she's been good to us. I couldn't... I wasn't thinking.”  
  
Ezio continues to glare at him for a moment before he finally relents with a sigh. “I seem to remember someone mentioning the folly of getting emotionally invested.”   
  
“I know, I know...” Desmond responds, turning his head to the side.   
  
There is a good thirty seconds of silence, and Desmond finds himself shuffling his feet under the table like a child being scolded.  
  
Ezio's sigh, when it comes, is heavy and exaggerated.  
  
“You are a good man, Desmond Miles, and your heart is in the right place. But it is your mind that we need, please remember that,” Ezio reminds him.  
  
Peripherally, Desmond notices Corrine approaching and he clears his throat. Ezio sits back, folds his hands in front of him, and Desmond smiles at her as she places a new tankard of ale in front of Desmond and two in front of Ezio.   
  
“I'm not sure what you boys are talking about, but it sure looks like you could use the drinks,” she says, smiling at Desmond before giving Ezio a hard look.   
  
“Grazie, mia cara,” Ezio says in Italian, offering Corrine a flirty smile.   
  
 _'Laying on a bit thick there buddy,'_  Desmond thinks to himself, but watches with awe as the suspicion from Corrine's eyes practically melts away, and her cheeks flush with blood. The man is a  _master._  It's almost super-human, really.  
  
Corrine giggles, and pats Ezio on the back.  
  
“Oh, if I were but a young, single lass again,” she says with a smile.   
  
“Ah, but the older the wine, the sweeter the taste,” Ezio responds. Corrine giggles again, and Desmond wants to  _gag._    
  
“You are sweet,” she says. “Now drink up and behave yourselves.”  
  
“Of course, mia cara,” Ezio responds.   
  
Desmond can still hear Corrine giggling all the way to the kitchen. He offers Ezio a toast with his mug.   
  
“You are the master and must teach me your wicked ways.”  
  
Ezio relaxes, takes a swig of his ale, and finally smiles at him.   
  
“Ah, Desmond. Even if I were to write you a guide and draw you a map, it would be no help to you at all.”   
  
Desmond lets out a breath then, and returns Ezio's smile. He's so relieved that they're okay, he doesn't take any notice of the way Achilles is casually leaning in their direction from behind his game of Fanorona.

* * *

  
  
“Dude, that's a guitar.  _Sick._  Did Connor drop it off for you?”  
  
Ezio's head is a little fuzzy from the ale, but his companion is practically falling all over himself as they return to their room.   
  
“Yes... it is beautiful, is it not?”  
  
“Gorgeous,” Desmond responds, picking it up to examine it. “Can you play it?”  
  
Ezio shrugs his shoulders and carefully takes the guitar back from Desmond. He strums at a few chords inquisitively. It is not so different from a lute, and the frets across the fingerboard do help. Or maybe he has had too much to drink and he just thinks he sounds good.  
  
“Connor has expressed his wish for me to sing and play at the wedding,” Ezio says, “but all the songs I know are in Italian.”  
  
“No worries, man, I got you covered,” Desmond responds with a hiccup, stumbling over to the other side of the room. He fumbles with their locked chest for a moment before he turns back to Ezio. “Um, do you have the key to this thing? Or do I have it?”   
  
“On the chain around your neck.”  
  
“Oh yeah,” Desmond responds, pulling the chain off and unlocking the chest. Desmond pulls out his white jacket and retrieves something from it before placing it back in the chest and closing it up.  
  
“Got a playlisht... a playlist of crappy music on here of Shaun's, all British invasion shit... they'll love it,” Desmond says, tossing a black rectangular thing with a white cord wrapped around it to Ezio. Ezio looks at it curiously, as Desmond falls on his bed face first. He turns to ask Desmond how to work it, but Desmond is already out, mouth open and drooling on his pillow.  
  
Ezio shakes his head, puts the little white things in his ears, and starts pressing buttons.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If the road is easy, you're likely going the wrong way.”  
> ― Terry Goodkind

_Enoch spends his time alternately training, avoiding his father, and visiting the girl in the orchard. She is unlike anyone he's ever met – beautiful and kind, and so, so smart. She teaches him the symbols of his own name and the symbols of hers, and he writes them together in the dirt; the angles and curves blending together to make something new, something different. The smile she gives him is radiant; her lips red enough to rival the fruit that she so loves._  
  
 _He wonders if they would taste as sweet._

* * *

  
  
Desmond is woken early the next morning by a rough knock on the door.   
  
“Ezio can wait five more minutes, Rebecca... sleeping now,” he responds automatically, burying his head into the pillow.  
  
The second knock, when it comes, is much more forceful.  
  
“Desmond, don't be a lay about,” Oliver's annoyed voice carries through the door. “The missus and I need you to make a run to Boston today. And she wants me to let you know that your breakfast is getting cold.”  
  
Desmond groans as his mind catches up with him.   
  
“Just a minute.”  
  
“I'm leaving a wash-bin and some towels by the door. Hurry up, the carriage won't wait forever.” There is a thump by the side of the door before Desmond hears the fall of Oliver's feet as he walks away.  
  
Desmond pulls himself out of bed, smacking dry lips together. He looks for Ezio, but his bed is already made and his boots and guitar are gone. Desmond shrugs, shuffles to the door and retrieves the wash-bin and pile of towels set aside by Oliver - what he wouldn't give for an honest to God _shower_  - and cleans himself up the best he can, rubbing the sides of his face and his cheeks with the warm, soapy water. It is weird to feel stubble on his chin; his room doesn't have a mirror, but he's fairly sure he is starting to resemble Ezio more now than ever, and makes a mental note to pick up a straight razor and whatever counted for a shaving kit in this time on his shopping trip.  _'Some aspirin would be good too'_ , he thinks as he blinks his eyes through his headache, but he's fairly sure it hasn't been invented yet.   
  
With a heavy sigh, he pulls the chain off his neck and goes to unlock their chest of belongings, before he notices that it is already unlocked.  _Weird._ He must have been pretty tanked last night for Ezio to snitch the key off of him and put it back without him knowing. Sure enough, it looks like Ezio's bracers are missing, and a dagger. Desmond doesn't give it too much thought; he had been feeling pretty naked himself lately without his own gear, and he wasn't going to be sent into a templar-run city without at least some of it. His hidden blades will fit well enough beneath his shirt sleeves, and so he takes them. He considers the officer's sword as well, before putting it back. He's supposed to be an errand boy, fetching groceries for the wedding, and nothing quite says 'I want trouble' like going into enemy territory armed to the teeth. Still... he looks at his sneakers and his hoodie with envy, before closing the chest, ensuring that it's locked correctly this time. His waist coat fits snuggly over his hidden blades, and he grabs a three-cornered hat and pulls it down over his head, looking every bit the colonial citizen. Shaun would surely get a kick out of this, if he were watching.  
  
But that thought just reminds him that Shaun isn't watching, he's not in the animus, that this is very real, and then there are  _feelings_  sending him down a path of self-pity that he doesn't want to travel, so he cuts the thought off short.   
  
Corrine serves him a breakfast of scrambled eggs – slightly cold, but he doesn't really care – and a cup of honest to God  _coffee_ , and he is so blissfully thankful that he feels the urge to bow down and worship at her feet, proclaiming how he unworthy he is and how she is a  _goddess._  
  
“Figured that'd bring a smile to your face,” she says. “Normally I'd save it for those who have real gold in their pockets, but you and your cousin looked like you had a bit of a spat yesterday. Is everything alright?”  
  
“We're fine. Family, you know how it goes,” he answers, draining his cup of coffee. It is bitter, too strong and grainy and it tastes  _divine._    
  
“Aye, that I do,” she nods knowingly. Corrine leaves him to his breakfast and returns shortly with a list and a small pouch. “These are the supplies we need. The coachman is waiting for you up at the manor.”   
  
Desmond takes the pouch and the list from her and hurries through the rest of his breakfast. 

 

* * *

  
  
He's halfway to the manor when he notices the guitar just sitting idly against the base of a tree.   
  
 _'Odd, why would Ezio just --'_  
  
And that's about the point when all thinking gets cut off and he just reacts, because Ezio has come from friggen  _nowhere_  to pin his arms and legs to the ground. Desmond feels his head jerked back and the sharp edge of a hidden blade against the side of his neck before he even has a chance to suck in a breath.  
  
“What the ever loving  _fuck?_ ” Desmond chokes out.  
  
Ezio cocks his head to the side, as if he were an interesting beetle to be studied, and then leans down and places his lips very, very close to Desmond's ear. Desmond can feel the hot breath of his exhale against the side of his face, and he freezes; all of his muscles tight with alarm, his heart rate increasing and his sight quickening as they respond to the chemical releases of his brain signaling  _danger_  through every nerve.   
  
“If I wished to kill you,” Ezio whispers in his ear as his blade slides against his skin ever so softly, almost like a caress. “You'd be dead.”   
  
Desmond kicks him off, suddenly furious, and Ezio lets him. The older assassin smirks at him as Desmond gets to his feet and brushes himself off.   
  
“You have a lot of training Desmond Miles, but little awareness or control,” Ezio says casually. “Were you to find yourself in a situation that was not of your making, the lack of such things could get you captured, or even killed.”  
  
Desmond wants to glare at him, wants to yell, but somehow manages to keep his mouth tightly shut and his expression blank as Ezio snorts, and casually picks up his guitar.   
  
“I will see you later, my friend,” Ezio says, walking away and it falls off his lips as something between a threat and a promise. 

 

* * *

  
  
Achilles is waiting by the carriage when Desmond reaches the manor house, engaged in idle conversation with the coachman. Desmond automatically drops his head a little and walks towards the carriage slow, even steps.   
  
“Good morning gentlemen,” Desmond offers in what he hopes is a low, even cadence, tipping the front of his hat in acknowledgement. He knows that the old man is far more perceptive than Connor, hence why they have been actively avoiding him. And even though he's aggravated at the bastard, he very much wished that Ezio was with him. He is the wrong one to be handling this confrontation. Even though English is not Ezio's natural tongue, his way of speaking is far more natural for this time period. Desmond is able to curb his penchant for swearing in front of the homestead residents and Connor with some success, but his vernacular is very much of the 21st century. In front of Achille's himself, Desmond would far rather not talk at all. As it is, he's worried anything he says is bound to come out either overly formal or just plain wrong, so he trie's to bypass the old man and manages to get one foot in the carriage before there is a hand grabbing the back of his waistcoat.   
  
“Desmond, right? Don't be in such a hurry, boy. There is plenty of time to get to the market. Stop and talk to an old man for a moment,” Achilles insists, and there is nothing for it, he's caught like a fly in a trap. Desmond sucks in a breath, smiles, and turns around.   
  
Achilles regards him curiously, both hands leaning on his walking stick.   
  
“I understand Corrine and Oliver are sending you to Boston on some errands,” Achilles says, and Desmond lets out an unconscious breath. Idle chatter, he can do this.  
  
“Yes, I am going to retrieve supplies for the wedding,” Desmond responds. The words sound lame as soon as they leave his tongue, but at least they aren't telling.   
  
“Ah, yes, the wedding. It's been a long time since this homestead has seen such a joyous event,” Achille's comments, looking off to the hill for a moment.  
  
Desmond has nothing to say to that, so he stays silent.  
  
“Anyway, I won't keep you. But if you are going to Boston, would you mind picking up a couple of things for me? I would normally ask Connor, but he is off hunting today.”  
  
“It would be my pleasure, sir.”  
  
Ack.  _Terrible._  Desmond wants to pull out his own tongue.  
  
“Excellent! I have a list right here –  _oh!_ ”   
  
Something like panic goes through Desmond as he watches the old man take his hands off his walking stick to search his pockets, and then fall to his knees in the dirt without the support. He automatically grabs the old man's fallen walking stick, then holds a hand out to help Achilles to his feet.  
  
Achilles turns a set of crafty dark eyes on him, and reaches for his freaking  _arm_ , bypassing Desmond's hand entirely. Desmond knows the moment he feels the hard steel of his hidden blade by the light of vindication that passes through Achille's dark eyes, but it is brief and gone before the old man is on his feet again, taking the walking stick away from Desmond and brushing off his pants.   
  
Desmond feels all the words he's not supposed to say bubble up into his throat where they just stick.   
  
“Ah, you'll have to forgive me,” Achille's says, meeting Desmond's eyes very deliberately. “I'm not as young as I used to be. Thank you, for your assistance.”  
  
“Yeah, no biggie,” Desmond squeaks out, fuck his damn speech, because  _Achilles knows –_  
  
“Here's that list,” Achilles continues as if nothing is wrong, placing a folded piece of paper into Desmond's hand. Then the old man nods, tips his hat and turns away, leaving Desmond staring open-mouthed after him.  
  
He's halfway to Boston before his nerves calm down enough to unfold the piece of paper, on which there is nothing but a hastily drawn assassin insignia.  
  
 _Fuck._

* * *

  
  
18th century Boston outside of the animus is  _surreal._  Desmond had been to Boston once, while on the run from the Farm. He remembers shopping at Quincy market, vendors shilling out whatever crap they could to eager tourists, street performers, roads with way too many hills and curves, and bumper to bumper traffic.   
  
Instead of the Boston he knows, he's landed in a Copley painting that should be hung in a museum. Or in another time period, an early Rockwell, down to the kids playing with stray dogs on the street. He can smell the salt from the ocean on the air, and feel the biting cold of the early fall wind through the fabric of his waistcoat. It takes a minute for him to get his bearings, the sights, sounds and smells of the city almost overwhelming in their simplicity.  
  
Desmond doesn't have much in the way of money on him, other than what Corrine had given him for the market, and the handful of coins he pocketed off of the patrol they took out on the frontier, but he shills out a couple of them anyway when he sees a street vendor selling a roasted ear of corn. Another pound goes to a newspaper vendor, since he still hasn't quite figured out where they were on the timeline of Connor's life. Dates and things were always Shaun's responsibility, but Desmond figures he can get a general idea by trying to match up current events. He doesn't know how much help it's going to be, but information never hurts and so he pockets the newspaper to read later.   
  
And, just because he can, he easily separates a few colonials from their wallets on the way to the general store.   
  
Desmond picks up the non-perishables on Corrine's list first; salt, spices, various types of alcoholic beverages, candles and silverware and pays a young boy to carry them to his carriage as he peruses the weaponry the General Store has in stock. They are all way of his price range, but he makes a mental note of the cost of a double barrel pistol and a nice navel dirk to purchase later.  
  
He has enough of his own money to buy a small shaving kit and a set of tools useful for picking locks. For the weapons that he wanted, he was going to need far more than a few pounds filched off of the unwary, and that type of money was generally kept in chests. He pockets the items, then heads off to the farmer's market, where he purchases an assortment of flowers, meats, fruits and vegetables, all items on Corrine's list, and has them sent back to the carriage as well.   
  
It is well into the afternoon when he is done, and Desmond takes about an hour for himself to practice free-running across the top of the buildings. Doing so in unfamiliar footwear is always a challenge, resulting in a couple of tumbles before he feels confident enough to attempt to climb to the top of one of the churches. He somehow manages to climb all the way up to the cross without being spotted by guards, surveys the area, and executes a perfect leap of faith into a wagon filled with hay beneath him. They are all actions that he has completed ad nauseum in the animus, but there is something exhilarating about doing so as himself. When he returns to the carriage, he is relaxed and content, and able to compartmentalize the growing problem of Achilles into a corner of his mind as something to be dealt with later.  
  
The trip back to the inn is uneventful, and both Corrine and Oliver are there to help him offload the goods. Once everything is put away, he takes off to look for Ezio, as it is early evening and neither Corrine nor Oliver had any idea where the man had gotten off to.   
  
He expects the attack the second he is out of the eyesight of any of the homestead residents, and is not disappointed. There is something exceptionally satisfying in the surprised look on Ezio's face, as Desmond executes a perfect parry with his hidden blade against Ezio's and pushes the older man back. Ezio grins at him, as they trade a few attacks and counters with their hidden blades before Desmond drops and sweeps Ezio's legs out from underneath him and pins him to the ground. Ezio struggles for a minute, but Desmond has got him securely pinned with his own body, and eventually Ezio goes lax beneath him. Desmond holds him that way for a moment, flushed and out of breath before he allows himself a slow victorious smile.  
  
Ezio's eyes drop right to his lips, tongue darting out to wet his own, and Desmond no longer cares about victory. There is a breath of warm air against his lips that goes straight through his body to his cock, before Ezio leans up to touch his lips against Desmond's in the barest of caresses...   
  
… and then Desmond finds himself flipped, flat on his back with a hidden blade against his neck. Again.   
  
 _Bastard._  
  
Ezio clucks at him, tongue against teeth, and shakes his head  
  
“So easily distracted. Once again, you would be dead,” Ezio says as he rolls to his feet. He winks and blows a kiss to Desmond. “Ciao, mio caro. See you back at the inn.”  
  
Desmond doesn't speak to him for the rest of the night.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Touch not; taste not; handle not. - Colossians ii. 21

_Enoch watches her from the top of one of the buildings overlooking the lush garden. She does not know that he is there._   
  
_There is another, older woman walking with her._   
  
_“But they can be so much more than what they are, Uni. And yet, we continue to subjugate them.”_   
  
_“It is for their own best interests, Menrva. Left to their own devices, they are nothing but the animals we uplifted them from. They seek only to fight and procreate, and those that are not under our control are becoming a plague on this world. It is a mercy what we do for them. We provide order and direction where there is only chaos.”_   
  
_“But that's not true! They can learn, adapt, and some of them can resist our instructions! I have seen --”_   
  
_“What? What have you seen in your short life that I have not seen in mine? Perhaps you have grown fond of one of the slaves, then? Kept one as a pet? Dallied with one, even? Disgusting.”_   
  
_“But --”_   
  
_“Enough, Menrva. Enough with your foolish and dangerous ideas. Your extraordinary wit would be better put to use in solving the issue with the Tree, so that we may continue with our tests.”_   
  


* * *

  
Ezio waits until he can see movement beneath the lids of Desmond's closed eyes before he pounces, jumping on the other man in his sleep. He half expects the younger assassin to keep dreaming, but Desmond's subconscious instincts seem to be surprisingly much better than the ones he has while awake and alert. Desmond's hands are around Ezio's throat before the younger assassin even opens his eyes. Ezio's own hands are forced to cover Desmond's in an attempt to pull them away. When Desmond's eyes finally do open, they are dark and intense and cloudy and not really focused on Ezio at all.  
  
 _“La shaiq' waqee mutlak bi kollin mumkin!”_  Desmond spits, increasing the pressure on Ezio's neck. Ezio is very aware that he has precious few seconds before he loses consciousness.   
  
“Desmond.  _Svegliarsi!_ ” Ezio somehow manages to gasp, using the rest of his available air supply. He can feel the hands around his neck tense for just a second, and then the pressure is gone and Ezio falls back, hands on his own tender neck, swallowing large breaths of air. Desmond shoots up, pulls his hand through his hair, and stares at him in something like horror.  
  
“Remind me to let sleeping eagles lie, my friend,” Ezio finally offers, after he regains his breath.   
  
“Ezio – I... I'm so sorry, dude,” Desmond says, voice soft. “I mean... I get what you are trying to do and all... but my head is a fucked up place, and I'm not always the only one in it.”   
  
Ezio coughs and offers the other man a soft smile. “Well, at least we know that you are safe from Templars in your sleep,” he says, rubbing his neck. He stands, offers a hand to Desmond, who regards it with no small amount of wariness. Ezio laughs.  
  
“Do not worry, my friend. No tricks, I give you my word. Now come. There is much to be done before tomorrow.”  
  
Desmond looks at his hand, blinks, but does not take it. Instead, the other man sits up in bed, eyes wide and alert.  
  
“Hey Ezio, there's something I forgot to tell you --”  
  
“Desmond? Mario? Are you lads awake yet?” Oliver interrupts, speaking through the door.   
  
“Later. Perhaps we should see what Oliver wants, no?” Ezio responds, cutting Desmond off and throwing open the door. Desmond squeaks and pulls the covers over himself like a shy maiden. Ezio cannot help but to roll his eyes; a habit he has picked up from the younger assassin. “Good morning, signore,” he says to Oliver.   
  
Oliver nods at him, clasps a hand on his shoulder.   
  
“Ah, Mario. Good. Come with me, I need your help with the firewood.”  
  
Ezio turns, offers an apologetic smile to Desmond, and follows Oliver, closing the door behind him.  


* * *

  
Ezio spends the better part of the morning chopping firewood before Oliver nods, calls the task done, and offers him a bottle of ale, of which he accepts gratefully.   
  
“You lads are certainly settling in well,” Oliver comments. “Have you given any thought to making this homestead a more permanent place of residence?”  
  
It is the second time Ezio has been asked that question this week, and he still has yet to give an answer.  
  
“I would very much like to, but our circumstances require us to have a certain amount of mobility.”  
  
Oliver huffs and clasps his hand on Ezio's back.  
  
“Our boy Connor spends but a small fraction of his time on this land. And yet, it is his to call home. Something for you to think about,” the older man says, squeezing his shoulder just slightly before letting his hand drop. “Besides, if you were to leave, I think it would break the missuses heart. We were never able to conceive, you understand. I think she is starting to see you lads as family.”  
  
Ezio smiles softly as the older man walks away.   
  
When he returns to his room to retrieve his guitar and Desmond's music player (he considers most of what has been recorded on the device dubious at best, incomprehensible and vulgar at the worst, and completely unworthy of the term 'music'), Desmond is already gone. Ezio spends the rest of the afternoon deep in the forest listening to and rehearsing the grand total of three songs (all under the playlist entitled  _'Emergency Use Only – a.k.a Car Rides with Shaun'_ ) that he finds appropriate for the wedding. Working Desmond's music device turned out to be remarkably easy and intuitive, which he doesn't really want to question because he's never seen anything like it before, up to and including the apple of Eden. Ezio finds it somewhat amusing in a way that on the back of the device there is also an apple; one with a bite out of it, and he wonders if there is some significance to that. Perhaps the craftsman that made the device was an assassin or a templar with a sense of humor. It would not surprise him. From just the glimpses of Desmond's technology that he's seen, he knows that Desmond's devices have been influenced by the inventions of those who came before. The term _reverse-engineering_  comes to him, but he dismisses it almost immediately. His mind contains knowledge that he does not remember obtaining, and it always brings a feeling of unease and a sensation of being trapped within the apple itself when it is accessed. Better not to think on it at all.  


* * *

  
  
Achilles approaches Connor outside the manor house as soon as he returns from the hunt, a strange contemplative look upon the old man's face.  
  
“Is there a problem?” Connor asks automatically.  
  
“I am not entirely sure,” Achilles answers, narrowing his eyes as if debating something. Eventually, he shakes his head. “It's nothing that you need to worry about right now, boy. At any rate, we have a guest.”   
  
Connor follows Achilles inside, where there is a colonial in a blue waistcoat seated with a cup of tea.   
  
“Connor, this is Benjamin Tallmadge. His father was one of us, so no need for secrecy. I think he has something he wants to say.”  
  
Their guest nods at Connor in acknowledgement, takes a sip of his tea and clears his throat.  
  
“Achilles tells me that you have uncovered a plot to murder the commander-in-chief,” the man says, getting straight to the point.   
  
Connor sighs and drops his shoulders.  
  
“Yes, but I have only false starts and dead ends to show for it.”  
  
Benjamin puts his tea cup down and places his hand on Connor's back. Connor tries not wince and drops his head, avoiding eye contact with the man.   
  
“Not anymore, my friend,” Benjamin says. “Thomas Hickey is your man. And I aim to help you catch him.”  
  
“How?” Connor asks.  
  
“I'll explain on the way. You and I will need to go to New York.”  
  
“I will need a little time,” Connor responds. “A couple of my friends are getting married tomorrow, and I am to give the bride away.”  
  
“You are standing in for her father then. She must have a lot of respect for you.”   
  
“Myriam is a good friend, I am honored to be asked,” Connor admits. “Let me take you to the inn. We will leave for New York together first thing Sunday morning.”  


* * *

  
  
Everyone on the homestead is busy with preparations for the wedding for the rest of the day, and Desmond finds himself unable to corner Ezio for even a second. Worse, he can't talk freely to him even in his own room anymore, as the walls are thin and Corrine had set up another guest in the room directly next to him; a guest that Desmond knows better than to start talking about Achilles and assassins in earshot of. At least with the presence of Benjamin Tallmadge, he knows exactly when they were in Connor's life, and he also knew that they couldn't interfere with what was about to happen to him. It was necessary for Connor to start working with Haytham on his own, to develop the camaraderie and the beginnings of a fragile truce before they dared to do anything at all to mess with the timeline. Therefore, Desmond felt that he would be better off avoiding Connor as much as possible until he leaves with Tallmadge. Besides, Desmond can't afford to look at Connor right now, knowing what he knows and feeling about it as he does. Bridewell prison was no picnic, even in the animus. And he can still remember Connor's fear as he was lead to the gallows.  
  
In the evening, he assists Corrine with decorations around the inn, and helps set up tables, avoiding Tallmadge entirely as the colonial sits at the bar and proceeds to make a heavy dent into the bottle of Oliver's best scotch. Desmond doesn't know how perceptive the man was, and doesn't care to find out. Just knowing that he was the son of an assassin was enough to know that he had some sort of basic training, and he didn't need to be on the radar of any more of Connor's allies.   
  
He's sweeping the floor when Ezio returns from Doctor White's, having had his stitches finally removed. The older assassin nods at Desmond, and heads towards their room. Desmond almost lets him go, but he can see from the corner of his eye that Ezio is carrying not only his guitar, but Desmond's freaking  _iphone._  
  
His brain processes halt in sheer incredulity, and he drops the broom to go confront the man, because  _no._  
  
Sure enough, when he returns to his room, Ezio tosses the iphone and earbuds to him with a smile.   
  
“Dude, what – ”  
  
“I never did get a chance to thank you, Desmond,” Ezio says, shrugging out of his waist coat and shirt. Desmond's eyes go straight to Ezio's scarred but toned chest, and he swallows heavily. What was he going to say? Oh yeah,  _the iphone._  
  
“-- were you doing with my iphone?” Desmond forces himself to continue. He counts it as a point for him that his voice is steady and even. “That thing has a limited battery life, and no way me to charge it for, oh, about the next two hundred years or so,” Desmond continues, but even as he says it, he checks the battery status on the front of the screen. Fully charged.  _Huh._  “How long were you using it?”  
  
“Not long. A few hours a day for the past week,” Ezio shrugs.   
  
“A few hours a day for the past week??” Desmond responds incredulously, checking the battery again.  _Weird._  He shrugs, unlocks the chest, and puts the iphone back in his hoodie pocket with the apple.   
  
Oh.  _Duh._  
  
“I do not like most of what you call music,” Ezio says through Desmond's epiphany, “although Lady Kim must be very talented with her mouth for this Eminem to write about it in song, no? I would very much like to have such a lover someday.”  
  
Desmond coughs and sputters all over the floor. When he regains his breath, Ezio is leering at him and much, much closer.   
  
“Thank you,” Ezio says, his voice low and heated, “for your assistance.” Ezio runs a finger over Desmond's lips, tracing the scar so similar to his own, and then brushes his lips against Desmond's own in a soft, simple kiss. Ezio tastes like a mix of forest air and Oliver's best ale and smells of leather and sweat and Desmond wants  _more._  But as he leans in, Ezio pulls away with an all too familiar smirk.   
  
“Patience, mio caro. I have learned a song especially for you and wish you to hear it,” Ezio says, as he grabs his guitar.  
  
Ezio breaks out the first bars of  _'Here Comes the Sun'_ , and Desmond groans, sliding down against the wall, all thoughts of warm lips and soft kisses gone.  
  
Freaking  _Shaun._  Somehow, this is all his fault.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Disobedience is the true foundation of liberty. The obedient must be slaves.”  
> ― Henry David Thoreau

_One time, Enoch is caught by one of Menrva's people before he reaches her. The man who grabs him is tall and slender, with golden eyes and a head full of golden curls._   
  
_“You are Abel's nephew,” the man says knowingly, his hands strong and hard on Enoch's shoulders. Enoch struggles, but the man only tightens his hold._   
  
_“Calm down boy, lest you alert the guards. I am not going to hurt you,” the man says. Enoch slowly allows himself to relax, and the man lets go of his shoulders. “But there are others who would. You must not keep coming to the city looking as you do,” the man says._   
  
_The tall man offers him the white robes of a slave. “To blend in,” the man says. Enoch looks at them with disgust, but puts them on anyway and pulls the hood up to cover his face before he leaves in search of Menrva._   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Connor is not surprised when Myriam takes flight, and he can even sympathise a bit, although he does feel bad for his friend Norris. Myriam is much like the cougars that she hunts; smart, fiercely independent and proud. Not to mention  _quick_  – were it not for the water's edge, Connor is sure that Myriam would have evaded him entirely. When he finally catches up to her, he is actually out of breath.  
  
“I am no housewife,” Myriam says. “I don't know what he expects from me, I don't --”  
  
Her concerns are groundless though, and Connor interrupts her to tell her so.  
  
“Norris loves you for who you are,” Connor reminds her, brushing a stray hair out of her face. “Not this person you think you must become.”  
  
Myriam's once pristine dress is a little stained by earth and bark from the chase, most of the flowers that had been set in her hair are gone, her cheeks are flushed and her hair is falling out of place. Connor gathers some wildflowers to replace the ones that have fallen out of Myriam's hair, and she smiles at him, gathering a few flowers herself. She sorts them into a little bouquet to replace the one she destroyed, and Connor thinks that she looks a little wild, and absolutely perfect. She is ready to be married, he thinks. Now he only had to retrieve the old man, and they could join the others at the chapel. Connor is sure that Norris is probably getting a little concerned.  
  
When they return to the manor house to find Achilles, the old man is nowhere in sight. Connor checks upstairs (where he leaves Myriam in the guest room to re-adjust her hair, and makes her promise on her honor that she will not run again) and on the balcony, before resigning himself to the fact that Achilles is most likely in the hidden assassin's headquarters. Sure enough, the gas lamp is not quite in the same position as it was this morning when he checks it. Connor tilts the gas lamp a little further, just enough to open the secret door, and closes it most of the way behind him, just in case Myriam does not take his words to heart and decides to do a little exploring.  
  
Achilles is bent over the desk, an old book sitting unopened in front of him. The book is fairly large, bound with artfully tooled calfskin, and has what appears to be brass clasps holding it closed.  
  
“Connor,” Achilles says, turning around to regard him. He runs a critical eye over Connor's attire, pronounces it 'acceptable', and then turns his attention back to the book in front of him.  
  
Connor thinks he looks better than 'acceptable', but says nothing. He had picked out his darkest Continental army pants and jacket, his hair was pulled back with a red tie, and he wore a white linen shirt with a silk cravat instead of his normal military shirt. It was about as dressed up as he has ever been, and he thought he looked pretty good. His various instruments of death were all still in their right places, the only exception being his bow and quiver, as they were rather awkward to carry. Plus, he expected that Myriam might not appreciate being poked with it as he escorted her down the aisle.   
  
Considering Myriam and the wedding just reminds him how late they already were.  
  
“We need to go to the church. Norris is probably getting concerned,” Connor reminds Achilles gently.   
  
“Humor an old man for a minute, Connor. Weddings are always late in starting," Achilles huffs, "Come here, I would like to show you something,” the old man continues, motioning with his hand to the book before him.   
  
Annoyed, but curious – Achilles rarely shows him anything new anymore – Connor approaches the desk. He runs a finger down the spine of the book before him, the cover of which is artfully tooled with geometric shapes. There looks as if there might have been some gold leaf applied to some of the designs at some point, but most of it has worn away with time. The book smells of old leather, and the pages are yellowed with age.  
  
Connor carefully releases the clasps, and allows the book to fall open. On the first page, there are a few simple sketches of people – mostly young men – and some notes in a language that Connor does not understand. He turns the page, a little confused as to why Achilles insisted that he see this book at this particular moment in time. There is another sketch, but this one is more interesting, as it appears to depict the inner workings of an assassin's hidden blade.   
  
“Be careful when turning the pages,” Achilles warns him, “this book is very old and one of the greatest treasures held by the brotherhood.”  
  
“Oh?”   
  
“Yes. You are looking at the personal journal of Leonardo DaVinci,” Achilles responds, a quiet reverence to his voice that is unexpected.  
  
“Was this DaVinci an assassin?” Connor asks as he turns another page and sees yet another design for a hidden blade, one with an attached barrel that could be nothing other than a pistol.  _Fascinating._  
  
“No, but he was a great friend to the order," Achilles answers him. "DaVinci was an artist, an inventor, and a powerful ally to one of your ancestors. His mind was unparalleled at the time, and remains so, even to this day.”  
  
Connor turns another page. Each page contains an elaborate design for an invention. When he reaches the page with the flying machine, he pauses for a moment, wondering to himself if this DaVinci was quite as smart as Achilles thought he was. After all, Lance did build the flying machine based off of this DaVinci's design, and Connor had had the dubious honors of testing it over the lake. All it had gotten him was  _wet._  
  
“This DaVinci was a friend to one of my ancestors?” Connor asks curiously, turning the page again. And that is where he completely halts, one hand rested against the table, the other carefully tracing the lines of the sketch in front of him. The sketch is of a man in his mid to late forties, with dark eyes, strong features, and a short salt and pepper beard. The man is wearing what looks like assassin's robes. It appears to be a candid sketch, as the man is not posing. Instead, the man just seems to be sitting casually on a bench, one gloved hand folded over the other. The man's expression is unguarded; his eyes and mouth lined with more frowns than smiles, dark eyes deeply contemplative. Connor brushes a finger tip against the man's upper lip where he has a scar in the exact same place as...   
  
...”Mario,” Connor says aloud. “This man looks as if he could be Mario's father... or perhaps even Desmond's father,” Connor continues, pointing the sketch out to Achilles.   
  
Achilles offers him a rare smile.   
  
“That is your ancestor, Connor. His name was Ezio Auditore, and he was one of the finest assassins the brotherhood has ever produced.”  
  
Connor backs away from the book with a frown. There was purpose to Achilles showing him this, there is always purpose in everything his mentor does.  
  
“Why are you showing me this now?” Connor asks.  
  
Achilles sighs, rests one hand on his cane, the other on Connor's shoulder, and gives the younger assassin a disappointed look. Somehow, Connor has let his mentor down and he doesn't even know how.  
  
“I just thought you might be... curious.”  
  
“I am curious!” Connor insists. “ You will have to tell me stories of his deeds when we are not extremely late for something else.”  
  
Achilles shakes his head and walks away.  


* * *

  
  
The wedding is late in getting started, of which Desmond completely expects, but he nevertheless feels a bit bad for Norris, standing in front of Father Timothy, his hat off and hair combed and wearing his absolutely best and cleanest clothing, and fidgeting with his neck cravat.   
  
Desmond subconsciously tugs at his own. He always thought that neck-ties were nothing but nooses probably invented by templars (along with women's bras – although that was more Rebecca's theory) as a subtle way of subjugating by way of strangulation the whole middle class. But neck-ties had nothing on the overly feminine and puffy silk cravats that all of the men present at the wedding (including Desmond) were wearing. Between the thigh high stockings, the silly hat, the cravat, the knee length breeches and the shiny buckles on his shoes, Desmond feels like he's having an out of body experience. All he needed was a goofy powdered wig, and he'd be all set to be a tour guide on Boston's Freedom Trail.   
  
He wondered briefly if there was a different version of himself in a different future sitting in an animus, reliving this wedding, and if so what future Desmond thought of it all before deciding that the whole train of thought was too fucked up and meta and thinking about that shit was a good way to give oneself an aneurism.   
  
Ezio sits besides him, at the edge of the pew, easily inhabiting his 18th century clothing as if he has worn such clothing all his life. It's amazing how relaxed he is, how much he blends in without even trying, whereas Desmond feels that no matter what he wears or what he says, all he does is stand out.  
  
“The bride is late to her own wedding,” Benjamin Tallmadge mutters from behind them, stating the obvious, and yeah, poor Norris is starting to pace back and forth, and is looking more than a bit panicked. Even Father Timothy is shaking his head. The low whisper going through the assembled homesteaders certainly doesn't help the situation at all.   
  
Lyle is sifting through his man purse of medieval torture devices, probably looking for something toxic to tranquilize poor Norris with, when the door to the church finally opens. Achilles enters first and takes a seat in the back pew, and then Connor enters with Myriam on his arm. Myriam looks beautiful, if a little nervous, and then everyone is on their feet. Desmond is actually looking forward to the wedding, since the wedding itself was not part of the memory sequence in the animus; just Myriam's little moment of cold-feet, and the reception afterwards.   
  
He enthusiasm drains about 40 minutes later when Father Timothy is still talking, and no vows have been exchanged. Desmond is in hell, and hell is a 18th century stuffy Catholic church with poor ventilation and a lot of people who need deodorant like one needs air to breath. Desmond is uncomfortable and twitching, in stark contrast to Ezio, who stands, sits, and kneels at all the correct times without prompting. Ezio even repeats the word to every Latin prayer, and is bizarrely one of the first in line to receive communion when it is offered.   
  
“Dude, you don't actually believe in this shit, do you?” Desmond questions in Ezio's ear when the Italian returns from communion. Ezio kneels beside him in prayer, and doesn't answer Desmond's question until he's done, blessing himself with the sign of the cross before scooting back in the pew. The whole sight is surreal to Desmond. It's just... for someone who was the bane of the Vatican for decades, Desmond didn't really think that the man had much use for religion, or the politics involved.   
  
“Jesus was a great and wise teacher, and a good man,” Ezio answers eventually. “His words were sound and noble. It is the men who came after who twisted his message for profit and evil.”   
  
It sounds too much like the alternate future that Minerva showed him, if he had just walked away from the tree, and Desmond does not quite repress the shudder that travels through him. Freaking hell, how many times has this story been played out? Was Jesus just another pawn, just like them?  
  
“But do you believe in God?” Desmond presses quietly after a moment. The question is important, but he has no idea  _why._  It isn't as if he himself is a believer. He's seen way too much shit for that.   
  
“I don't know what I believe,” Ezio finally admits with a sigh. “I know that I have been witness to a number of both beautiful and terrible things. I have to have faith that there is meaning to all of this, to every life that I have taken and to the others I have saved.”   
  
Ezio grabs his hand, squeezes it once before letting it drop. “I have faith in the creed, in our mission and in you, Desmond Miles. I think, for now, that is enough.”  
  
On that, Desmond agrees.

* * *

Later, Desmond helps Corrine carve and serve a monstrously huge roast turkey to the wedding guests, along with roast potatoes, carrots, some sort of blood sausage that he's totally not going to touch, applesauce cake and molasses dumplings. Cider, wine and ale flow freely, and everyone is happy; none more than the bride and groom themselves.   
  
Even Achilles seems relaxed, and simply says 'thank you' when Desmond serves him his dinner. There are no pointed looks or knowing glances, for which Desmond is grateful. Still, seeing Achilles reminds him that he has yet to say anything to Ezio, for which he is starting to feel a little guilty about. But the old man hasn't said or done anything since he slipped Desmond the note with the assassin's insignia and hasn't confronted them like Desmond thought he would. Desmond is wary of the old man, knows Achilles is crafty like a fox, and wants to get to Ezio before the other shoe drops. He makes a mental note to take Ezio aside and tell him tonight, Tallmadge or no Tallmadge. By the number of empty bottles on the colonial's table, Desmond highly doubts that Tallmadge is going to be much of a problem tonight anyway.  
  
After everyone is done eating, Ellen presents Connor with a flag representing the Davenport homestead and offers to make one for anyone who would like one. Achilles slips out soon after that, and Desmond relaxes a little, allowing himself to have a few drinks and kick back. He is well on his way to a warm and fuzzy head place when Ezio pulls out his guitar and plays a few chords. At first, Ezio doesn't sing, just plays at his guitar as he would his lute, strumming out a jaunty little tune that has the colonial's up and in a line, men on one side and women on the other, as they take turns dancing in pairs down the middle. Desmond is not at all surprised to find himself paired with Ellen when he joins the men's line, and is fairly sure that Corrine switched places with her to ensure that she was his dance partner. Desmond doesn't mind; Ellen is a good dancer, and they are all having fun. Even Connor joins the line at some point, at which Desmond can't help but to be just a little surprised. Connor is actually graceful on his feet – why he would have thought otherwise, he doesn't know – and dances once with Myriam and once with Catherine before he leaves the line in search of more cider.  
  
And then Ezio starts strumming the chords to “All you need is love,” and only Norris and Myriam are left dancing. Ezio's voice is strong and rich, the simple guitar its only accompaniment, and Desmond notices with chagrin that most of the women are doe-eyed and staring at Ezio with a tender expression. He follows with a rendition of “Let it be” that is slow and beautiful, and almost has Desmond himself teary-eyed before he shakes it off and reminds himself that he does not now and never will like The Beatles, ever.   
  
This conclusion is re-affirmed after Ezio starts singing “With a little help from my friends,” and invites Desmond to join him, of which his answer is a most emphatic  _'Hell no.'_  


* * *

  
  
By the time everyone leaves and they return to their room, both Ezio and Desmond are well on their way to drunk. Desmond actually has to half carry Ezio down the hall, which is extremely difficult when Ezio is laughing into his neck and being really touchy feely with his hands. Desmond has to keep batting them away from his backside, sure as shit that Oliver or Corrine are going to come out of any corner at any second. When they get close to their room, Ezio shoves him brutally against the wall and kisses him, all tongue and teeth and demanding, and Desmond can't get the door to their room open fast enough.   
  
“Hurry,” Ezio breaths into his neck. “It has been far too long for me, mio caro.”   
  
“Yeah,” Desmond murmurs in response, and his cock wholly agrees as it twitches with interest. Somehow, he manages to remove Ezio from himself long enough to get the door open, and he gets about one foot into the room before he halts, every hair on the back of his neck standing up in alarm. Something is  _wrong._ It isn't just him either; Ezio is alert and wary as he enters the room behind him, eyes searching every corner of the room. It is about then that Desmond notices that the chest of their belongings is completely open.  
  
 _“Ezio --”_  Desmond whispers, voice filled with alarm, but the other man instantly hushes him, eyes focused on the other side of the room, where Achilles is practically melting out of the dark corner into the light in front of him, holding both the apple and Desmond's iphone.  
  
“What I want to know," Achilles says in a harsh and raspy voice, looking at both Desmond and Ezio in turn, "“is why two  _brothers,_ ” he continues, emphasizing the 's' on brothers with a hiss, “one of whom should be centuries dead," Achilles pauses and shoots a hard look at Ezio in particular, “are trailing my assassin, carrying  _these._ ” The old man finishes by dropping the apple and the iphone onto Desmond's bed with a flourish.   
  
Desmond doesn't hide his wince, and looks to Ezio for support, but there is none to be found. Instead, Ezio's face is stone, his eyes narrowed and hard and focused entirely on Desmond.  
  
 _Fuck._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them, for this is the Law and the Prophets. - Matthew 7:12

_“You're late,” his father says to him, his expression reproachful. “Go and stand with the others.”_   
  
_His father whacks him on the back of the head before he can pull away. It is more humiliating than painful, and it is hard for Enoch to repress a scowl as he takes his place in line._   
  
_“Begin,” his father orders, and Enoch turns to face the boy next to him. His opponent raises his blade and lunges first. Enoch parries with ease, then twists his body into the other boy, catching his foot with his own and causing his opponent to fall. He is the quickest in the line to subdue and disarm his opponent, and yet he earns only a frown from his father._   
  
_“It is easy,” his father comments, “to utilize skill when one expects to be attacked.”_   
  
_Enoch stands, arms folded at his side and meets his father's eyes, his own narrowed in irritation. His father regards him for a moment, and then smiles, pulling a golden sphere from his pouch. His father holds the sphere in front of him, much like Menrva did in the orchard, and the sphere starts to glow._   
  
_All the other boys in the line turn and face Enoch. And then they are on him, and he has only seconds to fend the first one off before another one attacks. He manages to disarm about five before his arms begin to tire, and his pace slackens. A blade comes towards his face, and he is not able to deflect in time. It tears through his upper lip, and Enoch can taste his own blood. The next attack puts him on the ground. One of his attackers holds his blade high, preparing to drive it into Enoch's flesh._   
  
_“Father!” Enoch shouts in alarm. The blade comes down, and only stops when the tip is poised directly above Enoch's heart._   
  
_“Do you see, Enoch? Do you understand? For all your skill, how can you fight against an enemy that can turn your very brothers against you?”_   
  
_“Enough, Cain!”_   
  
_It is his uncle's voice, and his uncle's hand who removes the glowing sphere from his father's hand._   
  
_Enoch has never loved his uncle more._   


* * *

  
  
  
“I don't know what you want me to say,” Desmond says eventually, allowing himself to fall back onto Ezio's bed with a sigh. He rests his head in his hands, not really looking at anyone. Ezio, the bastard, remains quiet, arms crossed and leaning up against the wall.  
  
 _Fuck you very much, you know. You can chime in here, anytime._  
  
“How about the truth, boy? I am too old to play games,” Achilles responds, mouth set in a firm line.  
  
Desmond huffs out a quiet laugh and throws his head back to stare at the ceiling.  
  
“The truth? You wouldn't believe the truth. Hell, if I were you, *I* wouldn't believe the truth. The truth is impossible.”  
  
“More impossible than, say, standing in a room with an assassin that has been dead and buried for centuries?” Achilles counters, and yeah, Desmond has to admit that the man has a point.  
  
“I can't... I don't know what to tell you. We don't mean you any harm, or Connor for that matter. I can promise you that,” Desmond says, meeting the old assassin's eyes with his own.  
  
Achilles snorts in response.   
  
“If I thought you did, you would already be dead.”  
  
Desmond looks towards Ezio in time to see the Italian assassin quirk a smile before it is ruthlessly suppressed in favor of the glare he has been sporting since they found Achilles in their room.  
  
“Look... I can't tell you everything. But we are here for a reason, an important one. If we fail...” Desmond doesn't repress the shudder that travels through him. “There are some things we need to fix; some things that need to happen. This world...  _everything_  is at stake.”  
  
Achilles regards him quietly for a moment, before he sighs, sitting on Desmond's bed and motioning to the apple and the iPhone.   
  
“And I suppose these First Civilization artifacts are the reason why and how you are here,” Achilles comments. Desmond doesn't offer an answer, or even mention that the iPhone was made by men and not the First Civilization. He suspects that the question was rhetorical anyway.  
  
“I don't trust... they have been leading the assassin's astray for centuries," Achilles continues, "Perhaps even longer. Connor... his mother... Ezio... Altair.. Aquilus... too many others to name. They bring us away from our creed, boy, and solve no problems.”  
  
“Yeah,” Desmond pulls his hand through his hair. “Believe me, I know that. Ezio here  _definitely_  knows that. It's chasing those freaking things that got us into the situation we are trying to prevent. Assassin's and Templars fighting for centuries over the scraps left behind by a civilization that failed in a catastrophic way. Ours will too, if we don't succeed. We haven't got much time left, Achilles.”  
  
“My descendant speaks the truth,” Ezio comments, resulting in Achilles' eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. The old man is contemplative for a moment, rubbing his chin with his fingers. 

“I believe you. Just answer me one question.”  
  
Desmond hesitates for a second, meets Ezio's eyes, and finding no reluctance in them, slowly nods.  
  
“When were you born?”  
  
Desmond meets the old man's eyes as he answers.  
  
“March 13, 1987.”   
  
The old man's age is never more apparent when Achilles answers, voice tired and hands rubbing at his eyes.   
  
“So whatever is going to happen, it's going to happen in just over a couple of centuries. Not much time at all.”

* * *

  
  
It is a quiet Achilles who leaves them, but not before he threatens them with their lives if anything should happen to his assassin in their quest to 'fix the world'. For now, the old man agrees to keep his silence. It is more of a concession than Desmond hoped for, and he feels as if he has dodged a bullet. But that feeling goes away as soon as he meets the cold eyes of his companion.  
  
Ezio waits until Achilles is well out of earshot before slamming Desmond up against the wall. It is a mirror of his actions earlier, but it is scorn that comes from Ezio's lips this time.   
  
“You knew, didn't you? You knew that the old man suspected, and yet you did not share this information with me.”  
  
Desmond holds his hands up in surrender.  
  
“Look, man, I'm sorry! Yeah, I knew he was on to us. I was going to tell you, I swear – there was just never a good time.”  
  
“ _Never a good time!_  Keeping information like that to yourself could get one or both of us  _killed,_ ” Ezio spits furiously, shaking Desmond once for good measure before letting him drop to the floor. Ezio pulls back suddenly, hands shaking as he combs his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Every time you show some skill, Desmond, you do something to prove how much of a  _novice_  you actually are.”  
  
“Yeah, well you know what –  _fuck you!_ ” Desmond shouts back, hands balled into fists, suddenly furious. “I'm just making this shit up as I go along, you know? Maybe you could have been, I dunno, planning with me or some shit instead of taking off at every possible second to go play your fucking guitar.”  
  
“It was part of our cover,” Ezio seethes, and Desmond gets right up into his face.   
  
“Yeah? You're so far under fucking cover, you might as well not even be here! You like it, don't you? You like being Mario Erudito, traveling minstrel and not Ezio Auditore, master assassin, having to make the hard decisions. For you, this is like a fucking vacation, and you are  _perfectly fucking fine with it!”_  
  
The fist, when it comes, hooks right into Desmond's jaw, knocking him off balance. He feels the sting of it, tastes his own blood in his mouth before he rights himself, tackling Ezio onto his bed, hands at the other man's throat. He manages to get a knee into the meat of Ezio's thigh before the older man flips them.  
  
“Merda!” Ezio hisses,  _“Vaffanculo!”_  
  
“Fuck you too, buddy!” Desmond responds, even as he's wincing from the blow that catches him in the side. Ezio grabs his head with both hands, forces Desmond to hold it still. Then the Italian's lips are on his in a punishing, brutal kiss. It is not about passion so much as dominance, and Desmond gives back as good as he gets, chasing Ezio's tongue with his own. He can feel the older man's hardness against his own, and even in his angry haze, that is  _good._  He presses up against it, heat and pressure pulling a low whine from his throat. Ezio's lips drop to his neck and bites down, teeth worrying at the tender skin there.   
  
“You are so –  _esasperante,_ ” Ezio hisses into his neck, fingers fumbling with the edges of Desmond's shirt. Desmond pushes his hand into Ezio's breeches, grabs a hold of his cock and Ezio  _keens_ , pupils blown wide with a mix of lust and anger, and it's the hottest fucking thing Desmond has ever seen.   
  
“You are no picnic yourself, buddy,” Desmond responds, pulling on Ezio's cock with a slow, steady pressure. “Been driving me absolutely batshit crazy,” he continues. He lets go of Ezio, receiving a greedy whimper in response, using the distraction to flip their positions again. Desmond pulls his shirt over his head, hastily tossing it to the other side of the room, and then there are warm hands against his chest, fingertips pulling at his nipples _hard._  They are followed by teeth, and Desmond's eyes roll back for a second, before he pushes Ezio back onto the bed with a hissed order to  _stay put._ He pulls off Ezio's shirt as well, nearly tearing the fabric in his haste to remove it, and it is barely off before his hands are dipping to undo the laces at Ezio's breeches. There are too many fucking clothes, he can't get them off fast enough.   
  
In fact, Desmond doesn't even bother taking his own breeches completely off, just pulls them down far enough to free his cock before he takes them both in hand, slightly too tight and rough, but it is good the way they feel together, silky heat against silky heat. He's not surprised at all that they are of a similar length and girth, the only difference being that he is circumcised where Ezio is not, but even that is hot too, adding a certain uneven sensation with each pull that just about breaks his fucking brain.  
  
Ezio is hissing, biting at his shoulder hard enough to leave marks, muttering incoherently under his breath and swearing in Italian, merda, cazzo, _cazzo_. Desmond flicks his thumb over the head of Ezio's cock, thrusts his tongue between the other man's teeth and then tastes blood as Ezio bites his fucking tongue when he comes, pulling his mouth away only to bury it against Desmond's neck. Desmond follows immediately after, biting down on his lip in an attempt to muffle sound, white hot bliss burning through every nerve. He collapses on top of Ezio, breathing hard and covered in sweat, wiping his sticky hand against the side of his breeches.   
  
“That... was fucked up,” he eventually says into Ezio's neck, following the statement with a soft press of his lips. He pulls back a little to push his breeches the rest of the way off. A little late for that now, he supposes, but he doesn't want to sleep in the sticky things, and he does not have the energy or even desire to move to his own bed.  
  
Ezio sighs and wraps his arms around him, placing a soft kiss against his chin.  
  
“Nulla e reale. Tutto e lecito,” Ezio responds.  
  
Desmond rolls his eyes and molds his body to the other man with a sigh. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By wisdom a house is built, and by understanding it is established; by knowledge the rooms are filled with all precious and pleasant riches. - Proverbs 24:3-4

_“Your father wants a war,” Abel says to him, nimble hands carefully pulling the needle through the skin above his lip in an attempt to repair the damage. “Gavri'el has informed me that you have been to Eden many times. What have you learned?”_  
  
 _Gavri'el. The tall blonde man who had given Enoch his robes. Menrva had told him that Gavri'el's brother had been exiled from Eden for helping Enoch's people escape their lives of servitude. Enoch remembers his grandfather's stories, how the warrior known as the light bringer gave his sphere to Eve and led them out of Eden. For that, he was ostracized; no one knows what became of him._  
  
 _Even with losing a brother to his ideals, Gavri'el did not hesitate to help him. And Menrva risks much to teach him to write and read their language. It is knowledge forbidden to a slave, yet she offers it to Enoch freely. Her smile, when he succeeds in learning something new, is as radiant as the sun._  
  
 _And yet, for every Gavri'el and Menrva, there are many like the woman Uni, who view Enoch and his people only as tools, useful for slave labor and nothing more._  
  
 _But if Menrva can teach Enoch, can't Enoch teach Menrva's people as well?_  
  
 _“For the most part, they are a proud, fierce people and they see us as beneath them. They use our people as slaves and force them to do their bidding. They should be stopped, but --”_  
  
 _Enoch pauses on his next words. His uncle lifts an eyebrow and looks at him curiously._  
  
 _“Some of them think differently. Perhaps the minds of the others can be changed as well.”_  
  
 _His uncle ruffles his hair and smiles, tying off the last of the stitches on his lip._  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The place is dark, but for the bright array of strange lights flashing from above, covering the patrons in a swash of color. People are scantily dressed, bodies close, dancing in movements almost erotic to the heavy  _thump thump thump_  of the beat that surrounds them. Up on a stage, there is a man in front of a heavy desk, fingers moving rapidly as the lights dim and then glow brighter along with the strange beat of the music. Girls wear shoes that make them as tall as the men, their eyes heavily rimmed with kohl and sparkling with a glittery crystal dust, long lashes framing eyes of impossible colors. Jewelry such as he has never seen adorns the bodies of even the most obvious peasants; those who wear ripped and tattered clothing and have jaggedly cut hair, something almost purposeful in their casual display of both poverty and excess. Two men are brutally kissing up against a wall, ignored by all the others in a casual display of debauchery that would see them to the gallows in his time.   
  
Ezio is very aware that this is not his time. It is not Connor's either, and his eyes are wide as he silently moves amongst the throng of undulating figures, his feet carrying him forward with a purpose. The people around him ignore him as he casually brushes them aside, seeking.   
  
He parts through the sea of people towards a quieter part of the building, where there is an elaborate bar set up, glowing bottles artfully displayed and highlighted by different colored lights up against a wall of mirrors. There are beautiful women and handsome men sitting at the bar, exchanging green currency for colorful drinks which they quickly knock away, laughing loudly. He finds an empty seat at the bar and waits. The girl next to him has honey colored hair pulled back into a knot, teeth far too bright and sky blue eyes. Her sparkly blue blouse is cut low, one shoulder obscenely free and clear of fabric, and it rides up when she leans forward, highlighting a smooth expanse of slightly tanned flesh. Her pants are dark and snug and fit every curve. A black leather belt with a silver buckle sits low on her hips, and her lips are painted a dark cherry red.   
  
“Hey bartender,” she yells, flashing all those white teeth in a smile too bright to be completely legal. “Can a girl get a drink around here?”  
  
A blonde man with green eyes and a too broad chest appears in front of them, all smirk and charm. Ezio wants to roll his eyes, because he knows this game; he is the master of it. But the girl just gives the blonde haired man a once over, shakes her head and points to a darker haired man serving drinks on the other side of the bar.  
  
“Seriously, lady?” The blonde man asks. When the girl nods, he shrugs as if he had not a care in the world.   
  
“Hey Dan,” Blonde man shouts to the other bar keep, “this lady here wants you to take her order personally. No accounting for taste, I guess.”  
  
The other man turns around, eyebrows raised and slightly wary. It is Desmond. Ezio tries to call out to him, but finds that his mouth makes no sound. Wary now, he narrows his eyes, allowing his sight to shift. Where Desmond glows a bright blue, the girl next to him appears a pale  _red_. Whatever her intentions are, they are tinted with malice. His hidden blade springs forth almost as if guided by a mind of its own, needing to protect Desmond from whatever fate the blonde had in store for him. He tries to drive the blade cleanly into her back, behind her heart and lung. It should be a fatal blow, but his blade meets no resistance in her flesh, sinking right through her as if it were but a fragment of a ghost, the girl taking no notice of the strike at all.   
  
“What can I do for you?” Desmond asks, wiping the bar down in front of the blonde girl. She turns her megawatt smile on Desmond, runs her eyes up and down his body hungrily. Desmond responds by blushing and pulling his hand through his hair, but he continues to meet the blue eyes of the blonde and doesn't turn a way, a cautious interest there. Ezio wants to pull him over the bar and shake him, warn him, but this is just a dream; a fragment of memory, of  _Desmond's_  memory. He knows, but it does not shake the feeling of impotence that engulfs him, unable to help, to warn, to shield the younger assassin from danger.  
  
“Oh, I can think of many things,” she responds, placing delicate hands up upon the bar, fingertips painted the exact shade of red as her lips. “But for now, why don't you bring me a Knob Creek, neat.”  
  
Desmond's answering smile is more of a smirk.  
  
“A girl who knows what she wants. I like that.”   
  
Ezio watches as Desmond stretches to pull an amber bottle down from the top shelf, before turning to retrieve a small crystal clear glass from underneath the bar in front of him. Placing the small glass on a white paper first, Desmond flips the bottle in his hand and holds it high, allowing the amber liquid to fall from it in an even trickle into the glass below him without splashing even so much as a drop onto the strange black stone-like surface of the bar. He pushes the drink forward towards the girl, who throws it back eagerly, licking her lips, wisps of her blonde hair brushing against her neck as she swallows. Desmond follows the movement with his eyes.   
  
“I'm Dan, by the way... uh... just so you know. When you want a refill. Yeah. I'll be right over there.”  
  
The blonde girl smiles, lifts her glass in a salute, and offers Desmond a too bright smile.  
  
“Lucy,” the girl responds, before draining the last of the amber liquid from her glass. Ezio stiffens with recognition at the name. It had come from Desmond with so many conflicting emotions – love, hate, respect, lust, anger, gratitude – but the one that stood out above all the others was  _regret._

 _“_ Can you bring me another one of these?” Lucy asks, wagging her empty glass in front of her.  
  
Desmond looks at a device on his wrist and then turns back to Lucy with a slow smile.   
  
“I tell you what,” Desmond says as he fills another glass with the amber liquid, placing it in front of her with a wink. “This one is on me, if you promise me a dance in a half an hour when my shift ends.”  
  
“Alright. You're on.”  
  
The grin he offers her is sincere and hopeful all at once, and far too carefree to come from the Desmond that he knows. It reminds him of his own young self, the Ezio he had been when he first met Christina. The person he had been just before his whole world came crashing down around his head.  
  
The Desmond from this memory was similar; secure in the illusion of safety, naïve to the true danger he was in. It was hard to look at this version of the man; just as hard as he suspected it would be to face his own younger self.  
  
“Great! I'm, uh... just going to take care of a couple of other customers. Holler if you need anything.”   
  
Lucy waits until Desmond is on the other side of the bar before pulling out an iPhone, which at least is one thing from Desmond's time that is familiar to Ezio. Ezio had used Desmond's iPhone for music. Lucy uses hers for betrayal.  
  
“Warren? Yeah, it's him. One hour.”  


* * *

  
  
Desmond is still out when Ezio finally wakes. Desmond is leaning into him, his short hair a bit mussed and one hand on Ezio's side. In sleep, like this, he looks almost innocent; dark lashes fluttered against pale skin. He looks peaceful, an echo of the man he was before Lucy, before Abstergo. Before the fate of the world was placed on his shoulders, a weight no man should carry alone.  
  
Ezio traces the lines of Desmond's face with his fingertips, so similar to his own and yet so very different, Desmond's heated words from the night before still echoing in his head. There was truth to them, painful as it was. It is a difficult and unique position he's been put in, with little time to adapt. The strange truth of it was that Ezio was an incomplete version of himself, diverted halfway off his own path of destiny to this time. He wonders if it would have been better if he hadn't shared in Desmond's memories of the latter part of his life. It is strange, knowing that he fought all his life, seeking answers, only to find at the end, there were none to be had. His older self, the one that had married Sophia and fathered two children by her, had more time to absorb the truth of it. The older Ezio knew some peace before he died.   
  
That peace was lost to an Ezio who had died two hundred years ago, and he had been subconsciously mourning it. It is no wonder he had been more than willing to allow Desmond to take the reigns; a part of him felt that he was already done, he had played his part, what more could fate want from him?  
  
Ezio brushes a stray hair off of Desmond's forehead. Desmond, who had been innocent before he was drawn in as fates tool as well. Desmond, who shares more than just facial features with Ezio. Desmond, whose fate is now twined with his and has likely been so before either of them came to be. Perhaps together, the two of them could succeed where alone, there has only been failure.   
  
“Desmond,” Ezio says softly, placing a kiss against the younger man's forehead. “It is time to wake up.”  


* * *

  
  
Connor is gone for almost a week before Myriam shows up alone one evening at the inn. Desmond places a plate of roast ham slices and corn before her, along with a slice of thick, buttered bread and a cup of cider.   
  
“So, where's the lesser half?” Desmond asks, offering her a smile. He's really starting to enjoy his life and his time on the homestead. The people are a true community, unlike anything he has ever experienced before. It is something that the people of the 21st century have lost; everyone is an island to themselves in the future. Desmond hadn't even known the people in his small apartment in New York, other than the door man. He barely knew the people he worked with; Tony signed his checks and Carl also tended bar during his shift, but he couldn't tell you what their last names were, what they liked, if they had family, or shit, even if they were gay or straight. But these people... he feels such a connection to them. He thinks for the first time if they never get sent back to their respective timelines that it'll be okay – provided they succeed in what they came here to do.  
  
“Norris is still at the mine. Besides, he's a better cook than me. I have been spoiled this last week, and I am not really feeling like burnt rabbit.”  
  
“C'mon, it can't be that bad.”  
  
“Believe me, it is. I just kill 'em and skin 'em anymore. Norris cooks 'em, I'm happy to say. This marriage business has its benefits, in and out of the kitchen.”  
  
Myriam offers him a saucy grin, to which Desmond responds with a chuckle.  
  
“I have no doubt. Can I get you anything else?”  
  
“No, but since I'm here...” Myriam puts a fork full of ham in her mouth and then starts fishing around in her pouch. When she finds what she's looking for, she leans back with a grin and holds her hand out to Desmond. Bemused, he accepts what she offers him. It is a large iron key.  
  
“What's this?” Desmond asks, curious.  
  
“Well, I'm a married woman now. I have moved all my things in with Norris, and I will be living with him from now on. I know my little hunting shack isn't much, but maybe you and your cousin Mario can make use of it, until you decide to settle down. Be a little less expensive than staying at the inn all the time, anyway,” Myriam answers him, smiling from ear to ear. “There isn't much, but there are a few old dressers I'm not keeping, a cooking pit and a couple of beds. Enough to get started as real homesteaders.”  
  
Desmond pulls her out of her chair to give her a hug, floored by her generosity. It will certainly make things easier, having a place away from curious eyes and ears. Not much he can do in return, but he picks up Myriam's tab when she is done and sends her home with two bottles of Oliver's finest ale.  


* * *

  
  
“Well, it is not the Villa Auditore,” Ezio says later, checking out their new digs, “But it will do.”   
  
There is a total of two rooms; one has a small wooden table with two folding chairs from Lance and a cast iron stove, and the other has two small beds and a wooden dresser, which is just big enough to hold all of their clothes. There is a wooden outhouse outside as well as a cooking fire. The walls and floors are bare of adornments, but Desmond doesn't care. They even have a chest to lock up their equipment in; a 'home warming' gift from Achilles. Almost impossible to open without a key; neither Ezio nor Desmond were able to open it with their lock picking sets, something for which they were grateful.   
  
“Home sweet home,” Desmond replies, which causes Ezio to reach and grab him, pulling Desmond against him with a smile.  
  
“It is starting to feel comfortable here,” Ezio comments into his neck, placing small kisses against the side of his jaw. “But we must not get too complacent. We will be needed soon.”   
  
Desmond puts his arms around the other man and loosens his shirt from the confines of his breeches.   
  
“But not tonight.”  
  
“No mio caro,” Ezio chuckles against him, pulling him towards the bedroom. “Not tonight.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In riding a horse, we borrow freedom”  
> ― Helen Thompson

_They ignore him when he returns to the city, dressed as a slave. He walks with groups of others, hides in plain sight. All of the citizens of Eden wear bright, flowing clothes in many styles and colors. Elaborate jewelry adorns their arms, necks and ears. In his plain white robes with his hood pulled low over his head, he is invisible._   
  
_He finds Menrva sitting on the grass just outside of the small dormitory she shares with other students, interacting with a small device that puts words and pictures in the air._   
  
_When she doesn't notice him standing there, Enoch clears his throat._   
  
_“Enoch?” Menrva says in alarm. It gains the attention of some curious nearby students, and Menrva quickly stands, her posture straight and commanding._   
  
_“You will follow me, slave,” Menrva says loudly. It is enough to dissuade the others from watching, and Enoch follows her, head down as she enters the dormitory. She leads him into a small room and shuts the door before turning to him, her small hands reaching to pull the hood down from around his head._   
  
_“Enoch, that was dangerous, you shouldn't – what happened?”_   
  
_Her eyes focus on the small scar above his lips, cautious fingers brushing against it._   
  
_“It was nothing. A training accident,” Enoch responds, pressing his lips to her fingers._   
  
_“Let me heal you.”_   
  
_“No, Menrva. They would know.”_

* * *

  
  
On the second evening at the cabin, Ezio returns from a day of hunting on the frontier with the skins of four wolves and a bite wound on his right arm. Desmond can see the blood staining the ivory fabric of his hunting shirt even by the dim light of the fire, and puts a pot of water on to boil.   
  
“Dude, didn't you see the sign? Don't feed the wolves,” Desmond jokes.   
  
The Italian shrugs, unconcerned. He holds up the largest of the wolf skins.   
  
“This old wolf made me work for it. He had his pack attacking me all at once, from many different directions. I had dispatched two of his pack mates when this one launched himself at me from above. He bit down and did not let go until he died. I shall have his skin made into a hat.”  
  
Desmond huffs, already pulling back Ezio's sleeve to check the damage. It looks worse than it actually is; fortunately Ezio's bracer took the brunt of it. There are a couple of puncture wounds where the bracer meets the skin, but they are no longer bleeding and are not deep enough to require stitches. He rips a bit of fabric off the edge of his shirt and pours some of the boiling water on it, waving it around in the air to remove some of the heat before cleaning the wound.  
  
“Not sending you to that hack of a doctor for this,” Desmond says, ripping another piece of fabric off of his shirt and wrapping the dry piece of fabric around the bite wounds.   
  
“You are like a mother hen, my friend. I will be fine.”  
  
Desmond takes the skins from Ezio and hangs them to dry.   
  
“Did you manage to kill anything we could actually eat? Because I'm really not in the mood for wolf.”   
  
Ezio smirks in response, pulling a pouch over his shoulder in which he has three young hares, already gutted and skinned. Desmond takes the skins that Ezio had rolled and tied with twine and hangs them up with the wolf skins. They are beginning to collect quite a few, all small game. Desmond plans on making a trip into town to trade them fairly soon, they are starting to reek.  
  
Having skewered all three hares on a stick, Ezio sets them up on a spit over the coals of the fire, turning them slowly. The smell of roast hare soon saturates the air, and Desmond finds his mouth watering, even though he does not like game meat. Something about the pure simplicity of it all just gets to him every time. He goes into the cabin to retrieve Ezio's guitar and a couple of bottles of room temperature ale, preparing for a quiet night by the fire with good food, good music and good company.  
  
That plan is shot the second he exits the cabin and sees Achilles standing by the fire, locked in an icy glare with Ezio. Achilles shifts his attention to Desmond as soon as he approaches, and Desmond starts counting backwards in his head the number of days that Connor has been gone for, and comes up with  _'oh shit'_  for an answer.  
  
“You knew, didn't you?” Achilles accuses, both hands gripping the top of his cane. “You said that you meant no harm to my assassin, and yet you knew he was going to be imprisoned and sentenced to death.”  
  
“Listen my friend,” Ezio starts, but is quickly cut off by a scathing glare from Achilles.  
  
“Don't dare try your honeyed tongue on me, assassin. I have told you both before, I am too old for games. Did you know?”  
  
Desmond frowns and sets the guitar and bottles of ale down carefully away from the fire. So much for that.   
  
“Yeah,” he responds after a moment. “Yeah, we knew, but look. It's not anything that we could interfere in. Some things just have to happen.”  
  
“Are you saying that Connor's death is something that 'just has to happen'? Because that sounds like harm to me, boy.”   
  
Achille's twists off the head of his cane, and then there is a blade up against Desmond's neck. Ezio already has one of his own hidden blades released and is stepping forward, but Desmond marginally shakes his head. Ezio backs up a little, but does not retract his blade.  
  
“No! Look, tomorrow you will go to New York and with Stephane and the recruits and you will free him. That's what is supposed to happen, and we're not going to interfere with that.”  
  
Achilles barks out a laugh that is as cynical as it is loud.  
  
“Didn't you ever stop to think that by your very presence, you are already interfering?” Achilles removes his blade from Desmond's neck, but does not back away. “Connor sent all his recruits to Montreal on assignment before he left for New York. I would have advised him against it, but I was pre-occupied at the time if I recall, trying to determine what two assassins from another time were doing on my homestead.”  
  
Desmond meets Ezio's eyes across the fire. All the color has drained from the Italian's face. Desmond does not need a mirror to know that he must look the same way.  
  
“Connor is not going to die tomorrow,” Achilles says. Desmond tries not to notice the way Ezio's throat jumps or the whitening of his knuckles as the Italian clenches his hands. “You will ensure it. Both of you.”  
  
It occurs to Desmond for the first time that Connor might actually die, and that if he did, it would be their fault. Just by being here, they've already affected the timeline. There's nothing for it. They have to help. Desmond meets Ezio's eyes, and the Italian offers a short nod of agreement. They are on the same page, at least.   
  
“We will help... but we can't be recognized by Connor. Not yet, anyway.”  
  
Achilles considers this for a moment before nodding.  
  
“Eat. Pack your things. Then meet me back at the manor house.”

* * *

  
  
One hour later finds both Desmond and Ezio in the hidden assassin's den at the manor house. Ezio's attention is immediately drawn to an old book laying open on the desk, as Achille's fumbles through a chest of assassin's robes in various colors.   
  
“Fortunately, you are both of similar size and stature, and should fit well in some of Connor's robes,” Achilles says, pulling a darker set out of a chest, which he hands to Desmond. “This was made for Connor by a tailor in Charleston, and was received as a trade. I don't think he's ever worn this set. Connor prefers the traditional white.”   
  
Desmond takes the clothes with a nod of acknowledgement, and starts getting undressed. No time like the present, and he'd be dishonest to himself if he didn't admit to being partially intrigued. There was no official assassin's uniform in the 21st century; that had been something done away with by the end of the second world war. Most modern assassins wore street clothes, jeans, a good pair of running shoes, and a jacket with a hood that sat low on the forehead when it was pulled up. Long sleeves were a must to hide a hidden blade, and Desmond knew at least four different ways to conceal a side arm.   
  
They are cut similar to the clothing that Connor normally wears, just dyed in blue and brown colors with a dark brown hood. With the hood up and from a distance, he should be unrecognizable. At least, he could only hope.  
  
Achilles pulls another set of clothes from the chest, “from Jamestown,” he says. They are flashier than the clothes he handed to Desmond, mostly white with a red undercoat, and hands it to Ezio, who takes the set from him absently, attention still focused on the book in front of him.   
  
“Signore,” Ezio says, his voice tight with emotion. “How did you come by this book?”  
  
The tone of Ezio's voice has Desmond curious, and he pauses in a state of half dress to see what the other man is on about. A quick look over Ezio's shoulder reveals a sketch of the man himself, older, sitting on a bench outside of the Piazza della Signoria, the city square in Florence where his family was executed. It is a candid sketch, and by the expression on Ezio's face, forever captured on paper, the deaths of his family was not far from his mind at the time it was drawn. Desmond recognizes the style of the sketch as well as the orderly handwriting in the notes on the page as the work of Leonardo Da Vinci, a friend of Ezio's for most of the man's life, and he places a hand on the older man's shoulder in a silent show of support. It is a stark reminder to both of them that they are separated by centuries from all that they've known and loved.  
  
“It has been in the hands of the assassins since your death. I believe your grandson took it to Russia with him, where it spent some time there before it came into the hands of the assassins who came over to the colonies. At one point, the brotherhood held many of his other works as well; paintings, and the like. But they have been lost to greed, templars and time, along with many other things our brotherhood once treasured.”  
  
Ezio's breathing is heavy, and a long moment passes before he speaks.   
  
“Leonardo was a good man. A good friend. It is hard for me to look at this book knowing that this is all that remains.”  
  
“You should take it then. When we come back, it is yours. I believe it was yours at one point anyway,” Achilles responds, clapping Ezio briefly on the back.  
  
Ezio runs his fingers across the sketch briefly before closing the book.   
  
“No, signore. I believe this should stay here, in the brotherhood. It does no good to dwell on what is past... it is the future that is important now.”  
  
“Suit yourself. It will be here if you change your mind.”

* * *

  
Achilles has to wake the carriage driver, who is not at all pleased about a trip to New York City in the dark on roads frequently patrolled by redcoats, but is quickly agreeable once the situation is explained. Everyone on the homestead owes a debt of some sort or another to Connor, and it is important that they reach New York before dawn break. Desmond has already agreed to take out any guards on the rooftops, where Ezio, having more experience with ranged weaponry, will be counted on to loose that all important arrow to sever the rope of Connor's noose. It is exactly how Desmond remembers it going down in the animus, but they will be taking the place of Connor's recruits. Afterwards, they plan to fall back while Connor takes on Thomas Hickey, and leave for the homestead separately.   
  
Wearing his dark long hooded assassin's coat, he is virtually unrecognizable from the Desmond that Connor knows, and anyway, he doubt that Connor is going to be paying attention to anything other than the locations of Hickey, Washington and the executioner. It is the best plan they have, anyway. The only wildcard that Desmond can think of is Haytham. He doesn't quite remember from the animus if Haytham was present at the execution. Connor did not see him, but Connor was far more focused on preventing Washington's assassination. Whatever the case, they cannot afford a confrontation. He has already warned Ezio to stay well away from the man if he notices him.   
  
Desmond watches the Italian as he brushes down the front of his long waist coat, flattening the fabric into place, before pulling the white hood up and over his head.   
  
“You look good,” he says, and then coughs into his fist because even though they have that *thing* going that he doesn't want to put a name to (he tells himself it is just the result of being stuck in this strange situation together combined with a disturbingly-in-need-of-therapy-narcissistic attraction and nothing to do with actual  _feelings_  because,  _no. Not thinking about that._ ) he is not a girl and he's not going to start talking like one.   
  
“So, uh, you look good,” Desmond says again, and then pinches his own leg in hopes that the flash of pain will force him to grit his teeth and therefore keep his damn mouth shut.  
  
Ezio smiles and blows him a kiss, and all Desmond can think is that he's had his hand around the man's cock twice now, and Ezio can still get him to blush. No one has even pinged his radar since...   
  
 _No. Not thinking about that either._  
  
Ezio sits directly across from him in the carriage next to Achilles, and as soon as Achilles falls asleep, Ezio keeps trying to catch his eye, smiling and making obscene gestures with his hands and mouth and Desmond resigns himself to a very long and uncomfortable ride into New York.  
  
He does manage to close his eyes for a little while though with great effort, and regrets it about an hour later when he is rudely awoken by a hard jerk of the carriage and the cracking sound of a gun being fired.  
  
Ezio must have been awake the whole time, because he is out of the carriage before Desmond even has a chance to draw his sword. Desmond follows with Achilles, and finds himself being run down by a man on horseback pointing a revolver at them. He pushes Achilles down to the ground just as the man fires, pellet tearing into the door of the carriage, and from the ground, swipes his sword out towards the front leg of the attacker's horse as he comes around for another pass. The horse pitches forward, launching its rider to the side, and Desmond jumps on top of him, plunging his hidden blade into the base of the man's neck. The horse then rears and runs off into the woods.  
  
Desmond takes a second to notice that his attacker was dressed as a commoner, not a soldier, when another horse comes trotting around the side of the carriage. Desmond pulls out a flintlock pistol, one that he borrowed from the manor, but the rider is slumped forward across the neck of the horse, unmoving and most likely dead, having been hit in the head with a throwing knife. Ezio's work.  
  
“Thieves,” Achilles spits out. The old man shakes his head in disgust, and then goes to check on the coachman. Fortunately, the coachman turns out to be fine. The horse pulling their carriage, however, was shot in the flank, just above her right foreleg.  
  
Ezio comes around the side and tries to calm the one horse that is still standing, pulling the dead man off of it.   
  
It takes Ezio and the coachman a full half an hour to transfer the harness, driving bits and blinders from one horse to the other, Ezio gently leading the mare with the gunshot wound in her flank to the side of the road, where she collapse with a pitiful sound.   
  
“Whatdy'a think?” The coachman asks, his expression grim.   
  
Ezio pats the mare's head with a sigh.   
  
“She is bleeding too fast. I am sorry, signore. Desmond...”  
  
Desmond, having just killed another man with ease, points his pistol at the dying mare's head and  _hesitates._  
  
“Desmond, please. She is in pain.”  
  
He closes his eyes when he pulls the trigger, and then promptly turns around and throws up. It is only later that he realizes how very fucked up he actually is.  
  
 _“Requiescat in pace.”_


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.  
> \-- Buddha

“ _Come, Enoch. I wish to show you something.”_

_She whispers in his ear as if telling him a great secret, before she pulls him out of her dormitory room and into the hallway. It is late, and there are not many others awake at this time, making it fairly easy for them to avoid detection as they sneak through the hallways of the building. When they reach the center of the building, Menrva uses her sphere to unlock a door. Behind the door is a small, round room in the center of which sits a pedestal. On the pedestal there is a sphere many times the size of the one Menrva keeps on her person. It is illuminated with a subtle white glow. Enoch finds himself drawn to it._

“ _This is the Tree,” Menrva tells him, motioning towards the sphere. “My thesis and grand project.”_

“ _What does it do?”_

“ _Many things, and when it is complete, it will do many more. For now, it shows what has been and what is yet to be,” Menrva answers him._

_Enoch looks askance at her, and she smiles._

“ _Does it work?”_

“ _Partially. Touch the Tree, Enoch, and tell me what you see.”_

_He brushes his hand against the sphere –_

_~ ~ ~_

– _Enoch is surrounded by nothing but white as far as he can see. There are no shadows or sound, no ground to hold him, and no air to breath. And then the space around him breaks apart, pieces of nothing falling away –_

_~ ~ ~_

It is dark. He hears a hissing sound as something is lifted away from him. Bright light assails his eyes, causing him to blink. When his sight clears, he sees a woman dressed entirely in white standing over him, pulling something out of his throat. He sucks in a deep and hollow breath and coughs, his throat dry and sore. With great effort, he forces himself to sit up, and take notice of his surroundings. He is partially naked and sitting in a pod, his entire body covered with a sticky film, which he wipes out of his eyes and spits out of his mouth. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse from disuse.

“Status report,” Enoch orders, although the voice that comes from his mouth is not his own.

“Over half of the pods have failed, we no longer have the resources to sustain them. I had no other choice than to wake you. The situation is critical. If we don't make landfall soon, we are all dead.”

The woman grabs his hand, helps him out of the pod, and pulls him to his feet. He stumbles forward at first, as if his legs don't have quite the strength to support his body. The woman catches him, helps put him right. She hands him a cloth, and he proceeds to wipe the remaining film off of his body with it.

“So, this is it, then. We, who have survived the war and the exodus, just to die in the black of space.”

“All is not yet lost. The Atlas has found a location in a nearby system that is almost ideal, Commander -- temperate with the right atmosphere and teeming with primitive life.”

The woman touches a device in her hand, and then there is a great blue ball of white, green and blue hanging in the air in front of them.

“Almost?”

“There are some concerns about the stability of the planet's sun.”

“We have been running for far too long. This will have to be home now. If we die here, at least we will die free.”

~ ~ ~

– _The space around Enoch lurches and folds. The white nothingness returns and then –_

_~ ~ ~_

He is in the middle of a city that rivals Eden in its splendor. The grand buildings reach the sky, and Enoch is surrounded by lights and color and sound. There are people around him; so many that he can't count, all of them different. The people are as colorful as the city, some of them dark skinned, some pale, some with blonde hair, some with brown, others with hair of impossible colors. There are men, women, and even children, all of them moving in every direction with purpose as they go about their lives. Noisy machines of all different colors carry people on the street. Moving pictures made of light cover the sides of all the buildings around him. When Enoch looks up, he cannot see the stars.

Enoch turns and looks at his reflection in the smooth, glassy side of a building. The man that stares back at him shares his face and his scar, but is older than Enoch and wears clothes the likes of which Enoch has never seen before. He reaches out a hand to touch his reflection, feels the cold surface of the building against the tips of his fingers.

“You okay, mate?”

A hand clasps his shoulder and Enoch turns. There is a man with light hair and jewelery made of metal and glass on his face looking at him with some concern.

“Yeah, I'm fine, Shaun. Just... sometimes I feel like I'm not alone in my own head, you know?”

Enoch feels himself answer, the words foreign and not his, and yet he understands them completely.

“Do try and hold onto your sanity, I don't wish to pull you off of the pavement, considering,” Shaun replies snidely, tilting his head back to look up.

Eyes that do not belong to Enoch follow the direction of the other mans gaze to the top of the tallest building he's ever seen,

“You are joking, right? You guys want me to climb that?!?”

“Well, not completely. Rebecca is able to circumvent the security on the first sixty four floors, so you can take the lift that far at least.”

“Yeah, tell her thanks for the consideration.”

“We do our best.”

He snorts, and turns towards his companion, facing him fully.

“Hey Shaun? Before I go, I wanna ask you something.”

“Yes, because we have all the time in the world. No wait, actually, we don't --”

“Shut up, you ass. I'm serious.”

The man named Shaun sighs deeply, and adjusts the metal jewelry on his face – _glasses_ , a voice in Enoch's mind supplies. It occurs to Enoch that the man who is not him might be aware of his presence in some way. It is a strange feeling.

“Why now, Shaun? What makes this solar flare so bad? I mean, I've been googling and shit, and apparently there was a really bad solar flare in 1859, yet we are all still here.”

“Are you seriously asking me that question, Desmond? Now?!?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I'm risking my life here... and my sanity with the animus. How do we know that we aren't being taken for a ride by Minerva and Juno? I mean, I'd kinda like to know before I throw myself off the tallest building in New York for a stupid battery.”

Shaun shakes his head.

“Just look around you, Desmond. Look at the cars on the street, look at the buildings, look at the busy city lights. Look at the smog in the air, at the casual display of excess shown by everyone on the street. Look at all the people on their cell phones, going about their day, consuming, taking, using without any care at all for the environment. Consider all the radio towers, all the satellites, all the factories, all the planes in the sky, and consider everything we have done to this planet in the name of progress since the industrial revolution. We have repeated the same mistakes as those who came before, reaching for the power of the gods without any regards to what it might cost. It took nearly 75,000 years for the ozone to repair itself from the damage done by those who came before, and we have undone that in less than two hundred years. You want to know why we aren't being taken for a ride, Desmond? Because humanity has learned nothing and we have destroyed our only natural defense against coronal mass ejections. That's why.”

_'Hey, whoever's hitching a ride, I know you're there.'_

The voice that is not his speaks in his head, addressing him. Enoch feels the city starting to fade away, as a sense of wrongness fills him. This, this is not allowed somehow, the other should not be _aware_ –

' _Please remember this, take all this shit to heart. If I fuck up the world, I had no choice.'_

_~ ~ ~_

– _There is a lurch, a splash of white, and then Enoch is in Eden and Eden is burning. He is being held in someone's arms, being loaded onto a transport, a child –_

_~ ~ ~_

– _Another flash of white, and Enoch is looking through his father's eyes –_

_~ ~ ~_

There is a man with golden hair and golden eyes handing him a staff. The man looks like a citizen of Eden, but wears the clothes of a villager. Enoch is immediately wary of him.

His father reaches and takes the staff from the golden haired man. Enoch feels the power of the staff as soon as it touches his father's hand.

“Combine this weapon with an apple, and you will have them at your feet,” the blonde man says, his eyes proud and fierce.

“They will beg for mercy when we are done, son of Adam.”

“Thank you, Heylel. You are truly the bringer of light to my people. And we will ensure your vengeance against your own. Now, we must retrieve the apple from my brother --”

~ ~ ~

_Enoch rips himself out of the vision, pulling his hand back from the Tree as if it has been burned. He is breathing hard when Menrva reaches for him, and he automatically pulls away from her._

“ _I must go.”_

“ _Wait, Enoch. What did you see?”_

“ _I must go, Menrva. I have no time --”_

_“Enoch please, whatever you may have seen of the future is only a possibility, nothing is certain --”_

_He leans in, stops her words with the pressure of his lips against hers. She leans against him, eyelashes fluttering closed as he wraps his hands around the back of her neck. Her mouth opens to his, and he takes just a moment to breath in the scent of her._

“ _I'm sorry. I love you,” he whispers against her lips as he chokes her into unconsciousness. When she falls onto the floor, he takes her sphere from her and runs as fast as he can, out of the room, out of the building, and out of the city, cutting down the few guards who dare stand in his way with the sharp edge of his blade._

_He doesn't notice how the men and women enslaved to the citizens of Eden stop to watch him._

 

* * *

 

They reach New York before the first light of dawn.

Desmond is practically hanging out the side of the carriage, taking in the sights and smells of the city he knows and loves. No place has ever felt more like home to him than New York, and even though this version of New York is not the city he knows, it is still his city. He takes in the sights of the brownstones, four stories tall at the most and smiles. 

“Home sweet home,” Desmond says, and Ezio cocks an eyebrow at him.

“You lived here?”

“Yeah, for a while. I tended bar at Bad Weather, just off of 48th. Course, I'm sure that nothing is there right now but a townhouse... still, this is my city. Just an early version of it. In my time, it is known as the Big Apple.”

Ezio gives him a strange look.

“Because of an artifact?”

“Actually, in a round about way, I think so. New York was – er, _will be_ – famous for horse races at about the turn of the 20th century. The templars kinda ran the whole gambit, and the prize for a winning horse was a golden apple. Not a real Apple of Eden, of course, but the symbolism was definitely there.”

“Well, it is a beautiful city, my friend. Despite the unfortunate nick name,” Ezio responds.

Desmond offers him a half smile.

They ride in silence for a short while, watching as street vendors set up stalls along the side of the streets and shop owners sweep off their front steps. The print shops are amongst the first to open, and newspaper sellers start to line the streets. The sun is just starting to break the horizon when they arrive in the center of town, where a gallows is already set up and people are starting to gather. Achilles orders the coachman to pull the carriage to the side of the street, and motions to the two of them as they exit.

“Gonna be a lot of people here,” the old man says, indicating the ever-growing crowd. “I never understood why people want to watch this kind of thing. You'd think they'd have better things to do.”

Ezio frowns, folding his arms defensively in front of himself.

“I am in agreement, signore,” Ezio says, his voice tight. “The times may change, but people do not. It is as barbaric now as it was in my time.”

Desmond turns, catches Ezio's eye, and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You gonna be okay, buddy? I mean, you're a better shot with a bow than I am, but if this is going to be hard, I can --”

“I will be fine, Desmond,” Ezio cuts him off abruptly in a tone that leaves no room for argument. Desmond gives the Italian a wary look. He knows how this has got to be affecting the other man, he has lived his life through the animus after all. But he recognizes the stubborn tilt to the Italian's chin, as well as the silent plea in the man's eyes.

_'Don't speak of it, mio caro. I will do what I must.'_

“Is there a problem, men?” Achilles asks, his eyes focusing on each of them in turn.

Ezio huffs and adjusts his bow and quiver so that they are laying flat against his back.

“None, signore. I will find a window, yes?”

And without waiting for an answer, Ezio turns and melts into the crowd. Before long, he is gone from sight, and Desmond feels his heart beat a little faster with anxiety and concern for the man.

“His family, you know... his brothers and his father... he watched them all hang,” Desmond tells Achilles, running his hand through his hair.

“He is a master assassin,” Achilles responds after a quiet moment. “One does not get that title without learning how to separate his heart from his head. Still... I will keep an eye on him, if I can. You need to get in position. If all goes well, I will see you both back on the homestead in a few days. If it doesn't... ”

Achilles trails off with a shrug.

Desmond nods grimly, acknowledging what Achilles says as well as what he doesn't.

_'If it doesn't, I will kill you both.'_

 

* * *

 

Haytham feels naked without his hat and his cloak, but it is best that he is not recognized in this crowd by either friend or foe. His heart races as he waits for them to arrive with the assassin – his son, he has a _son_ – and he wonders what kind of man sends his own child to his death. He finds himself scanning the crowd, looking for Connor's recruits, hoping to find them. Surely, they won't let the boy die here today. Haytham expects to at least see the bald frenchman, but he is not to be found. In fact, the only one of Connor's ally's that he can see is Davenport, and he doubts that the old man is going to be much assistance to his son on his own.

 _There_ – a flash of white in a window – an archer. Not one of his, either. _Good_. Still...

Haytham wonders on the efficacy of an arrow against the tough rope of a noose, and his hand unconsciously tightens around the hilt of the dagger belted to his side.

It isn't long before the carriage containing his son appears, and Haytham watches as two red coats roughly pull Connor out of the back of it. Connor is filthy, barefoot and covered with bruises. Something in his chest tightens at the sight.

He blends in with the crowd, close enough to overhear, yet positioned carefully out of sight of his son and of his fellow templars.

“'Ello Connor,” Thomas Hickey says in his slow, cockney drawl. “Didn't think I'd miss your going away party, did ya? I hear Washington 'imself will be in attendance. Hope nothin' bad 'appens to him.”

“You said there'd be a trial!” Connor spits.

“Ah, no trial for traitors I'm afraid. Lee and Haytham saw to that. It's straight to the gallows for you!”

Haytham quietly swears to himself. And now Connor will know that it is he that condemned him. His own father would be turning in his grave, he was sure of it.

Still, he can't help but feel a bit of pride when Connor turns and meets Hickey's eyes with no fear and great conviction.

“I will not die today,” Connor promises. “The same cannot be said for you.”

* * *

 

Desmond easily and silently dispatches the few unlucky templar guards on the rooftops overlooking the gallows. No one appears to be paying any attention to him. He is sure that Connor can see him peripherally, but as the young assassin does not turn to look at him, Desmond feels secure in his anonymity. That feeling is tempered by the knowledge that he remembers being Connor, and being far too focused on the crowd and Charles Lee to take any notice of who, exactly, his backup was. Connor might have questions for Achilles later, but it is not Desmond's problem and he's not going to worry about it.

On the other side of the street, he can see Ezio with his bow, completely focused on Connor. _Good_. Another quick survey of the crowd shows Achilles inching quietly behind the gallows with Connor's tomahawk. Also good.

And then he searches the crowd itself, activating his second sight.

A man in gold is on the outskirts, clutching a dagger tightly in his right hand. Desmond shifts his focus once again, and sees Haytham, in plain clothes, without his hat and cloak.

_Not good. Not fucking good at all._

* * *

 

Ezio's hands are sweating as he holds the bow in front of him, an arrow already set and ready to fire. He watches as they march Connor through the crowd of people, listens as they jeer and make racial slurs as he walks past. He's trying not to draw parallels in his mind with every step Connor takes towards the gallows in front of him, but it is hard to watch and not _see_. He feels the bile collecting in his throat, yet cannot turn his head away to spit it out, not even for a second.

Someone trips Connor and he falls to his knees. Ezio can see Achilles bend to whisper in his ear and help him up. He feels the hair raise on the back of his neck, as he has the sudden sensation of being _watched_ – 

Everyone in the crowd is focused on the gallows. Everyone except one person, and Ezio meets the eyes of the man that is watching him intensely from below.

 _Haytham_. _Merde_.

Surely, the templar knows why he is positioned where he is, knows that he is there to prevent the execution of his son. For a moment, Ezio considers turning his bow on the templar. If Haytham gives him away, than Connor will die. Connor has to live, at all costs –

But the templar merely nods his head at Ezio, acknowledging his presence before turning towards where they are fitting Connor with the noose, one hand tightly wrapped around a dagger by his side.

 _Interesting_.

If his own arrow fails to cut the rope than Haytham's dagger will succeed. Perhaps their mission isn't so hopeless after all, if the man is willing to protect his son. Ezio lets go of a breath that he didn't realize he was holding. Peripherally, he can see Desmond skate across the tops of the buildings, silently taking out the templar guards positioned on rooftops.

The templar by the gallows speaks, accuses Connor of being a traitor, of planning to murder George Washington, and Ezio tightens his hold on the bow, pulling the string back taught.

His heart races in his chest, and he tries to focus only on Connor, even as the sights and sounds of New York fade away, leaving the Palazzo della Signoria in its absence. All of a sudden it is his father and brothers up on the gallows, and he is not going to be fast enough, _there is nothing he can do --_

Ezio blinks away the illusion as Connor whistles, and allows the arrow to fly. It hits the rope just before Haytham's dagger, and Ezio takes a deep breath of relief as Connor falls and quickly reappears from beneath the gallows, armed with his tomahawk. There is pandemonium as Connor runs towards Thomas Hickey, yelling and screaming from the crowd as people run in every direction in confusion. He takes a deep breath and searches the crowd for Haytham, for Desmond –

– and finds them both together, Desmond pulling Haytham back away from the crowd by way of the hidden blade pressed against the older man's neck.

 _'Cazzo,'_ Ezio swears to himself. Desmond must have seen Haytham's dagger and come to the wrong conclusion. He throws himself out the window and climbs onto the roof, silently trailing where Desmond is dragging Haytham into a back alley, hoping he can get there in time to do damage control.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Psalm 18:32-34 the God who equipped me with strength and made my way blameless. He made my feet like the feet of a deer and set me secure on the heights. He trains my hands for war, so that my arms can bend a bow of bronze.

A/N: Author apologizes for the very late, late, late chapter. Had a death in the family, and was struggling with it. My muse left me for a bit. I am planning on finishing this, however, and will not leave you all hanging so long again!

~ ~ ~

_For all his haste, he is not fast enough to prevent his world from falling apart._

_Enoch arrives just in time to see his father and his uncle grappling over an apple in full view of the other villagers. He tries to push through the masses, tries to intercept, but is held back by Heylel._

_“No! Father! Uncle! You must stop!”_

_“This is the way it has always been and the way it will always be. Brothers against brothers,” Heylel's lips curl into a frown. “Fathers against sons. We will be led by the strong. Do not interfere.”_

_“Your words are poison,” Enoch spits back, one hand curling around the apple stolen from Menrva. He raises it above his head and watches as the sphere begins to glow brightly. Heylel pulls back from him, eyes wide in alarm._

_“No, Enoch!” Abel yells, turning from Cain upon seeing the apple held in Enoch's hand. His voice is high and urgent. “It will control you! Look to your father, look at what it has done!”_

_His father uses the moment of distraction to fully wrench the other apple out of Abel's grip. There is a moment of confusion, and then his father plunges a blade into Abel's heart. Enoch can only watch in shocked agony as his uncle falls to the ground, pleading eyes still focused on him. The apple held by his father glows so brightly it burns spots into the back of Enoch's eyes._

_Cain screams, dropping the apple to the ground as if it were on fire. He then drops to his knees, clutching his hand, a bright red cross burned into the center of his palm from the markings on the apple._

_The light from Enoch's own apple fades as he lets his hand fall to his side. He can't speak, feels rooted to the ground, only a few steps away from where his uncle lies covered in blood and unmoving. If he had not turned to Enoch, if he had not tried to issue a warning..._

_Heylel wastes no time moving to Cain's side, grabbing the discarded apple and helping him to his feet. He lifts Cain's marked hand high up into the air as he turns to address the villagers._

_“The mark of might,” Heylel says, meeting Enoch's eyes with a smirk. “The mark of a new order.”_

_The villagers fall to their knees. Enoch turns and runs, but for the first time, he has nowhere to go._

* * *

 

Haytham lets out a mixed breath of relief and anticipation as his dagger hits the rope a fraction of a second after the arrow loosed by one of Connor's allies. The combination of the arrow and the knife appears to be enough; the rope snaps and Connor falls. No doubt he has just personally assured the death of Thomas Hickey. Sure enough, Connor quickly appears from behind the gallows, armed with a tomahawk that must have been given to him by Davenport. For a second, Haytham wonders if he has made the correct choice, but then immediately disregards the thought, knowing he has not. For once, he has made the emotional choice; something he had long thought himself incapable of. Bemused at his own actions, he starts to work his way through the crowd – whether to stop Connor from reaching Hickey, or to observe the boy in his revenge, he doesn't know – but does not manage to make more than a few steps in the assassin's direction before he feels the sharp edge of a blade against his throat.

Haytham immediately stops and throws up his arms, silently cursing under his breath for allowing himself to be distracted. There are obviously a few more of Connor's allies amongst the crowd than he noticed. It's his own fault for being sentimental and foolish, and thus, distracted. The boy was nothing but trouble, Charles was right, and obviously more competent than Haytham had anticipated if Connor's recruits were trained to recognize him.

“Surely, there is no need for such barbarity,” Haytham says, wishing he can turn his head to address the recruit directly.

“Shut up!” The recruit hisses harshly in his ear. Haytham allows the recruit to pull him away from the crowd, biding his time. He has to think, and fast. He could kill the recruit, he supposes. But not here, not so close to where he could be discovered by his son. He hasn't really thought about the next step, what to do now that the boy's life is no longer in immediate jeopardy, but now that he has saved the boy, and by doing so, ensured the death of one of his own Templar lieutenants, he will need someone to take Hickey's place amongst the Templar ranks. And what an attractive idea that was... converting his own son to the Templar cause. Their cause was just; the boy was most likely naïve, having had his head filled with all sorts of dangerous ideals due to Achilles.

Haytham tenses his hand as he debates whether or not to release his hidden blade. It wouldn't take much – an elbow to the assassin's solar plexus, a stomp on the recruit's boot, then a quick turn and he could plunge his hidden blade into the man's eye – but doing so would not earn Connor's good graces. Besides, he can't help but to be a bit curious as to what the recruit knows and how he found him. Haytham was sure he had been discreet.

Do some of Connor's recruits have the gift of second sight? If so, then they were a more formidable opponent than he had expected. It behooved him to be cooperative; at least as long as his life was in no immediate danger. And since the assassin was pulling him away and had not outright killed him yet --

Haytham finds himself pulled into an alleyway away from the throngs of people and roughly pushed against a wall, head to the side. The blade against his neck is removed, only to be replaced with the barrel of a gun against the side of his temple. For the first time, he can somewhat see the assassin out of the corner of his eye, but the man's face is mostly obscured by the shadow of his hood. The only feature Haytham can make out with any surety is the scar running across the man's upper lip.

The assassin who has him pinned to the wall seems nervous and unsure of his actions. He doesn't say anything or do anything for quite a long moment, and Haytham's eyebrows raise in comprehension. This assault was not planned, is probably not even authorized. Haytham figures he can use this to his advantage, and sighs as if bored.

“Do you have a reason for this assault on my person?”

“Templar asshole,” the recruit responds with a hiss. “Don't push me, I can empty nine rounds into your head before you can blink.”

“Quite an accomplishment, considering that the most any pistol is capable of discharging without reloading is two,” Haytham snarks back, non-plussed. Whoever this is, he certainly is an amateur. Haytham debates just breaking away now and putting the poor boy out of his misery. After all, he'd only be helping his son by removing an incompetent loose cannon. But then again, that would be helping the assassins.

His remark seems to fluster the recruit further as the man sputters briefly, before pushing the barrel of the pistol harder against his temple. But still the recruit doesn't give any reason for having pinned him there, and as the silence stretches on, Haytham rolls his eyes.

“If your intent is to kill me, do get on with it,” Haytham says. “Otherwise, it is quite past time for lunch. Botched hangings do tend to stir up an appetite, wouldn't you agree?”

It has the intended result. Haytham can feel the arm that is pinning him against the wall trembling with barely suppressed rage.

“I ought to kill you right now, you fucking bastard! Bad enough that you tried to have him hanged. Couldn't just leave it at that, could you? What kind of father throws a knife --”

The recruit cuts himself off suddenly, perhaps realizing he has said too much. Haytham's eyes go sharp and cold. The pressure on his temple alleviates somewhat as the recruit loses focus for a moment.

One moment is more than Haytham needs. He steps hard on the recruit's foot, causing him to take a step back. The pistol is removed from his temple as the recruit swears, and Haytham releases his blade and pivots, facing his attacker. He takes note of the strange design of the assassin's pistol. It is unlike anything he has ever seen. The recruit still holds the pistol in Haytham's direction, but takes a step back.

“Who are you? How do you know that Connor is my son?” Haytham asks. He knows now that the recruit has no intention of killing him, and he swings his hidden blade forward, wishing he had bothered to equip his sword.

The recruit quickly parries, but Haytham presses his advantage, forcing the recruit to step back. Over the metallic clash of their blades meeting, he can hear the loud roar of the crowd from the town center. He needs to finish this, needs to get back to find out what is happening, and yet –

“Who are you? Answer me!” Haytham demands, maneuvering so that he is the one with his blade against the other man's neck. The recruit holds his hands up, still holding his pistol, still unwilling to use it. Haytham forces his head back with the tip of his blade, and sees a strong nose and dark eyes before he is hit in the back of the head and his vision goes dark.

* * *

 

“Desmond,” Ezio says, strangely calm as he catches Haytham and slowly lowers the older man to the ground. “That was rash and extremely unnecessary.”

Desmond pulls his hand through his hair, taking deep calming breaths as he tries to retain his composure. Fuck. Why the fuck did Minerva think he'd be able to fix anything, anything at all, he doesn't know. Family has always been his trigger – his dad especially had the capacity and ability to piss him off to the extreme – and he couldn't help it. He saw Haytham trying to kill Connor and he saw red.

Desmond opens his mouth to explain his reaction to Ezio, but is stopped with a raised hand.

“You did not see what you thought you saw, but we will not discuss it here. Help me get him to an inn,” Ezio insists, leaning down to wrap one hand around the unconscious Templar, lifting him to his feet. Desmond wraps an arm around the man's other side, the rest of his emotions draining out in an exhaled puff of breath.

“Do you think this is a good idea? If he wakes up --”

“If he wakes up, we will handle it. Right now, let's get him to safety. We cannot leave him here, at the mercy of every vagabond that walks the street. That is no way to treat your grandfather, after all.”

“He is not my grandfather. More like my grandfather's grandfather's grandfather's grandfather,” Desmond counters under his breath with a wince. Haytham sure is a heavy bastard. “Or something...”

* * *

 

Neither Desmond or Haytham are surprised at how very little attention they receive escorting an unconscious man through the streets. They don't particular stay out of sight, but they don't deliberately draw too much attention if they can help it. Most of the city is still in a state of pandemonium about the failed execution, and the assassination of Thomas Hickey thereafter. Desmond does keep his eyes out for Connor, but the assassin is long gone as he expected. They receive only one sarcastic comment from a guardsman.

“Too early for your mate to be in 'is cups, wouldn't you say?”

“Ah, but my friend is getting on in years. He chooses to use his remaining time in drink and in women.” Ezio easily replies, which causes Desmond to cough into his free hand, thanking God that Haytham wasn't awake to hear that. The man was as severe as they come, and he very much doubted that he'd appreciate Ezio referring to him as an old whoring drunk.

Ezio applies his easy charm once again when they reach the tavern. The bar maid looks at them suspiciously for only a moment before Ezio opens his mouth.

“Please, my lady, can you show us to a room? My father was involved in a brawl at the gallows. He tried to stop the assassin, and was knocked out.”

“Oh, the poor dear! There have already been a few patrons in here, complaining about all the trouble. You just follow me, sir. Can you carry him upstairs by yourselves, or will you need help?”

“I think we can manage,” Ezio replies, hoisting Haytham over his shoulder. The action draws a groan out of Haytham, but he thankfully does not open his eyes, and within short order they have Haytham propped up on the bed.

“Now what?” Desmond asks.

“Now... now we wait. And then, we talk.”

“Do you think that is such a good idea?”

Ezio turns and shoots Desmond a look that could turn him to stone.

“What I think, Desmond, is that you have left us no other choice.”


End file.
